The Steppe and Other Stories, 1887-91

by Anton Chekhov

  XVI

  ‘The humane studies you’re talking about will only satisfy men’s thinking when they converge with the exact sciences as they advance and go along arm in arm with them. Whether they’ll meet under the microscope or in the soliloquies of a new Hamlet, or in some new religion, I can’t say. But I do think that another ice age will be upon us before that comes about. The most stable and vital part of all humane studies is the teaching of Christ, of course, but just look at the diversity of interpretations! Some scholars teach us to love our neighbours, but make an exception for soldiers, criminals and the insane. They make it legal for the first to be killed in war, the second to be locked up or executed, and the last to be prohibited from marrying. Other commentators teach us to love our neighbours without exception, irrespective of the pros and cons. According to them, if a consumptive or murderer or epileptic comes up to you and proposes to your daughter, you must give your consent. If cretins wage war on the sound in body and mind, the healthy must lay their heads on the block. If this advocacy of love for love’s sake, like art for art’s sake, were to grow strong, it would lead in the end to the total extinction of mankind and as a result one of the most enormous crimes ever to be seen on this earth would have been committed. There are countless different teachings and if this is so, then no serious mind can ever be satisfied with any one of them and would hasten to add its own commentary to the sum total. So, you should never base a question on philosophical or so-called Christian premises, as you call them, or you’ll only stray further from the correct solution.’

  The deacon listened attentively to the zoologist’s words and inquired after a moment’s thought, ‘Is the moral law, that is inherent in everyone, an invention of the philosophers, or did God create it together with the body?’

  ‘I don’t know. But this law is so common to all nations and epochs it strikes me it has to be recognized as an organic part of man. It is not an invention, it exists and will continue to do so. I wouldn’t go so far as to say that one day we’ll be able to see it under the microscope, but there’s already evidence that proves its organic links. Serious illness of the brain and all the so-called mental illnesses manifest themselves first and foremost in violations of the moral law, as far as I know.

  ‘Very well. So, just as the stomach wants food, the moral sense requires us to love our neighbours. Right? But our natural self resists the voice of conscience and reason out of sheer selfishness and many ticklish questions arise as a result. And to whom should we turn for the solution of these problems if you don’t want us to deal with them from a philosophical standpoint?

  ‘Take note of the small store of precise knowledge that we in fact do possess. Trust what you can see, and the logic of facts. True, it’s not much to go on, but on the other hand it’s not as shaky and vague as philosophy. Let’s suppose the moral law demands that you should love people. What then? Love should lie in the elimination of everything that in any way harms people and threatens them with present or future danger. Knowledge and what we can observe tell us that humanity is threatened by the morally and physically abnormal. If that is correct, then you must do battle with these freaks of nature. If you can’t raise them to the norm, you’ll at least have the strength and ability to render them harmless – by that I mean exterminate them.’

  ‘That’s to say, love is when the strong conquer the weak?’

  ‘Without any doubt.’

  ‘But it was the strong who crucified our Lord Jesus Christ!’ the deacon retorted heatedly.

  ‘That’s just the point, it wasn’t the strong who crucified him, but the weak. Civilization has weakened the struggle for existence and natural selection, which it is trying to annihilate. That gives rise to the rapid multiplication of the weak and their superiority over the strong. Just imagine if you succeeded in instilling bees with crude, raw human ideals. Where would it lead? The drones, who should be killed, would survive, eat all the honey, and corrupt and smother the others, and as a result we’d have the weak holding sway over the strong, so that the latter became extinct. Exactly the same is happening to humanity now, the weak oppress the strong. The savage who is strongest, wisest and who has the highest moral standards, who is as yet untouched by culture – he’s the one who makes the most progress; he is the leader and master. But we civilized men crucified Christ and keep on crucifying him. That’s to say, we are lacking in something… And this “something” must be restored or there’ll be no end to this folly.’

  ‘But what’s your criterion for distinguishing between the strong and the weak?’

  ‘Knowledge and the evidence of my senses. Consumptives and the scrofulous are known by their symptoms and the immoral and insane are judged by their actions.’

  ‘But surely mistakes can happen!’

  ‘Yes, but there’s no point in worrying about getting your feet wet when a flood is threatening.’

  ‘That’s philosophy,’ the deacon laughed.

  ‘Not at all. You’ve been so spoiled by seminary philosophy that you see fog just everywhere. The abstract studies which your young head is stuffed with are only called this because they abstract your mind from reality. Look the devil straight in the eye and if it is the devil then say so and don’t go running off to Kant or Hegel for an explanation.’

  The zoologist stopped for a moment and then went on, ‘Twice two are four and a stone’s a stone. Tomorrow there’s going to be a duel. It’s all very well for us to say how stupid and ridiculous it is, that duels have outlived their time, that the nobleman’s duel is essentially no different from a drunken tavern brawl. All the same, we won’t wait, we’ll go off and fight. That means there’s a power which is stronger than all our discussions on the subject. We cry out that war is robbery, barbarity, horror, fratricide and we faint at the sight of blood. But the French or the Germans only have to insult us and immediately our spirits soar, we cheer passionately and throw ourselves on the enemy. You’ll invoke God’s blessing on our guns while our valour will arouse universal and genuine elation. Once again, that means there’s a power, if not loftier, then at least stronger than us and our philosophy. We are as powerless to stop it as that cloud over there coming in from the sea. Don’t be hypocritical, don’t stick your tongue out at it behind its back and don’t say, “Oh, it’s stupid, it’s out of date, it doesn’t agree with the Scriptures!” Look it straight in the eye and acknowledge that it’s reasonable and in the rightful order of things. And when for example it wishes to destroy some feeble, scrofulous, depraved tribe, don’t hinder it with all your medical remedies and quotations from imperfectly understood Gospels. Leskov has a highly virtuous character called Danila,19 who feeds a leper he found outside the town and keeps him warm in the name of love and Christ. If this Danila had really loved people, he would have hauled that leper as far away from the town as he could and thrown him into a ditch. Then he would have gone off to lend a hand to the healthy. Christ preached the love that is sensible, meaningful and useful, that’s what I hope.’

  ‘Get on with you!’ the deacon laughed. ‘You don’t believe in Christ, so why do you mention him so much?’

  ‘No, I do believe in him. But in my own special way, not yours. Oh, deacon, deacon,’ the zoologist said, laughing, as he put his arm round the deacon and gaily added, ‘Well, what now? Are you going to that duel tomorrow?’

  ‘My cloth doesn’t allow it, or I would come.’

  ‘What do you mean cloth?’

  ‘I’m in holy orders, by God’s grace.’

  ‘Oh, deacon, deacon!’ von Koren repeated, laughing. ‘I love talking to you.’

  ‘You say you have faith,’ the deacon said. ‘But what is it? Now, I have an uncle, just an ordinary parish priest, whose faith is such that when he goes into the fields to pray for rain during a drought, he takes his umbrella and a leather coat to avoid a soaking on the way home. There’s faith for you! When he speaks of Christ there’s a halo over his head and all the peasant men and women sob their hearts out.
He would have made that cloud stop and put any of your powers to flight. Yes… faith moves mountains.’

  The deacon burst out laughing and slapped the zoologist on the shoulder. ‘And so,’ he went on, ‘that’s what you’re teaching the whole time, plumbing the depths of the ocean, sorting out the weak from the strong, writing pamphlets and challenging people to duels. But everything stays where it was. You wait, though, one old man only has to whisper a word in the name of the Holy Spirit – or some new Muhammad to come galloping out of Arabia, scimitar in hand – and everything will be turned upside down, leaving not one stone standing on another in Europe.’

  ‘But that’s a load of rot, deacon!’

  ‘Faith without actions is dead and actions without faith are even worse, a sheer waste of time, nothing more.’

  The doctor appeared on the front. Seeing the deacon and the zoologist he went up to them.

  ‘Everything’s arranged, it seems,’ he said, gasping for breath. ‘Govorovsky and Boyko will be seconds. They’ll be here at five tomorrow morning. What a lot of clouds!’ he said, looking at the sky. ‘Can’t see a thing. We’re in for a shower any minute now.’

  ‘I hope you’re coming with us,’ von Koren asked.

  ‘No, God forbid. I’m just plain exhausted. Ustimovich is going instead. I’ve already spoken to him.’

  Far over the sea lightning flashed and there were hollow peals of thunder.

  ‘It’s so close before a storm!’ von Koren said. ‘I’ll wager you’ve already been round to cry on Layevsky’s shoulder.’

  ‘Why should I go there?’ the doctor replied, taken aback. ‘Well, what next!’

  Before sunset he had walked up and down the boulevard and street several times, hoping to meet Layevsky. He was ashamed of his outburst and of that sudden benevolent impulse that had followed. He wanted to apologize to Layevsky in jocular vein – to give him a little ticking-off, to calm him down and to tell him that duelling was a relic of medieval barbarism, but that Providence itself had shown them that duelling was a means of reconciliation. The next day the two of them, both fine, highly intelligent men, would – after exchanging shots – come to appreciate each other’s integrity and become friends.

  ‘But why should I go to see him?’ Samoylenko repeated. ‘I didn’t insult him, he insulted me. Tell me, if you don’t mind, why did he attack me? Have I ever done him any harm? I merely went into the drawing-room and suddenly, without rhyme or reason, he called me a spy! A fine thing! Tell me, what started it? What did you say to him?’

  ‘I told him that his situation was hopeless. And I was right. Only honest people and crooks can escape from any situation, but anyone wanting to be crooked and honest at one and the same time will never find a way out. However, it’s eleven already, gentlemen, and we have to be up early tomorrow.’

  There was a sudden gust of wind. It raised clouds of dust on the sea front, whirled them round and drowned the sound of the sea with its howling.

  ‘A squall!’ the deacon said. ‘Let’s go, or I’ll have my eyes full of dust.’

  When they had gone, Samoylenko sighed and said, gripping his hat, ‘I probably won’t sleep now.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ the zoologist laughed. ‘You can relax, the duel will come to nothing. Layevsky will magnanimously fire into the air – he can’t do anything else – and most likely I shan’t fire at all. To find myself in court because of that Layevsky, wasting my time because of him – the game’s not worth the candle. By the way, what’s the penalty for duelling?’

  ‘Arrest, and should your opponent die, up to three years in prison.’

  ‘The Peter and Paul?’

  ‘No, a military prison, I think.’

  ‘That young puppy should be taught a lesson!’

  Lightning flashed on the sea behind them and for a brief moment lit up the roofs of the houses and the mountains. Near the boulevard the friends parted. When the doctor had disappeared in the darkness and his footsteps had already begun to die away, von Koren shouted after him, ‘I’m scared the weather might spoil things tomorrow.’

  ‘It might well do that. Let’s hope it does!’

  ‘Good night.’

  ‘What? What did you say?’

  It was difficult to hear anything against the roaring wind and sea, and the thunderclaps.

  ‘Oh, nothing!’ shouted the zoologist, and hurried home.

  XVII

  … a crowd of oppressive thoughts20

  Throngs my anguished mind; silently

  Before me, Memory unfolds its long scroll;

  And with loathing, reading the chronicle of my life,

  I tremble and curse, and shed bitter tears,

  But I do not wash away these sad lines.

  PUSHKIN

  Whether he was killed in the morning or made to look a fool – that is, allowed to go on living – it was all finished now. That dishonoured woman might kill herself in despair and shame, or she might drag out her wretched existence – either way she too was finished.

  These were Layevsky’s thoughts as he sat late that evening at his table, rubbing his hands together as always. The window suddenly banged open, the strong wind burst into the room and the papers flew off the table. Layevsky shut the window and bent down to pick them up. He experienced a new kind of sensation, a kind of awkwardness which he had never known before and his movements seemed foreign to him. He walked about gingerly, thrusting his elbows to each side, twitching his shoulders. When he sat down at the table he started rubbing his hands again. His body had lost its suppleness.

  Letters should be written to close relatives the day before one is going to die and Layevsky remembered this. He took his pen and wrote ‘Dear Mother!’ with trembling hand.

  He wanted to ask his mother, in the name of all-merciful God in whom she believed, to shelter and give the warmth of her affection to that unfortunate, lonely, impoverished and weak woman whom he had dishonoured, to forget and forgive everything, and at least partly expiate her son’s terrible sin by her sacrifice. But then he remembered how his mother, a plump, heavily built old lady in a lace cap, used to go from house to garden in the morning, followed by her companion with a lapdog. He remembered how she would bully her gardener and servants in that imperious voice of hers and how proud and arrogant her face was. All this he remembered and he crossed out what he had written.

  The lightning flashed vividly in all three windows, followed by a deafening roll of thunder – indistinct at first, but then crashing and crackling so violently that the window panes rattled. Layevsky stood up, went over to the window, and pressed his forehead to the glass. Outside, a mighty, beautiful storm was raging. On the distant horizon lightning constantly darted out of the clouds on to the sea in white ribbons, illuminating the towering black waves for miles around. To the left and right, and probably over the house as well, the lightning flashed.

  ‘A thunderstorm!’ Layevsky whispered, feeling an urge to pray to someone or something, even if only to the lightning or the clouds. ‘What a lovely storm!’

  He remembered how once when he was a child a storm had made him run bareheaded into the garden with two fair-headed blue-eyed girls chasing after him, how they were all soaked by the rain. They laughed with delight, but then came a violent thunderclap and the girls trustfully snuggled up close to him as he crossed himself and hurriedly started reciting, ‘Holy, holy, holy.’ Oh, where have you gone, in what ocean have you foundered, first glimmerings of beautiful, innocent life? No longer did he fear thunderstorms, he had no love for nature, he had no God, and all those trustful girls he had once known had long since been ruined by himself and his friends. Never had he planted one sapling, never had he grown one blade of grass in his garden at home and never in his life had he spared a single fly even, but had only wrecked, ruined, and told lies, lies, lies…

  ‘Is there anything in my past life except vice?’ he asked himself, trying to cling to some bright memory, as a man falling over a precipice clutches at bush
es.

  And the high school? The university? It was all a deception. He had been a bad student and had forgotten what he had been taught. And what of his service to the community? That was deception as well, since he had never done any work and received a salary for doing nothing, so his ‘service’ was nothing more than disgraceful embezzlement of government funds which goes unpunished in court. He had no need for the truth and had never sought it. Under the spell of vice and deception, his conscience had either slept or remained silent. Like a stranger or an alien from another planet, he had done nothing to help people in their everyday life, was indifferent to their sufferings, ideas, religion, knowledge, searchings, strivings; never had he spoken a kind word to anyone, never had he written one line that was not cheap or worthless, never had he done a thing for others. Instead, he had eaten their food, drunk their wine, seduced their wives, copied their ideas. And to justify his despicable, parasitical life in his own eyes and theirs, he had always tried to give the impression of being a nobler, superior kind of being. Lies, lies, lies… He clearly recalled what he had witnessed that evening at Myuridov’s and he felt unbearably sick with loathing and anguish. Kirilin and Achmianov were repulsive, but they were after all carrying on what he had begun. They were his accomplices and pupils. He had taken a young weak woman, who had trusted him more than her own brother, away from her husband, her circle of friends, her native land, and had brought her to this place, to endure stifling heat, fever, boredom. Day after day she had come to mirror his idleness, loose living and lying in herself – her feeble, dull, wretched life consisted of this, and only this. Later on, when he had had enough of her, he began to hate her, but was not man enough to drop her, and so he redoubled his efforts to entangle her in a web of lies… The people here added the finishing touches.