On my one side sat the host’s son, and on the other Karp Dementich seated his young daughter-in-law…. Let us interrupt the account, reader. Give me a pencil and sheet of paper. I shall draw to your satisfaction the entire honorable company and that way I shall make you a participant in the wedding feast even if you happen to be on the Aleutian Islands catching beavers. Even if I do not copy out exact portraits I shall be contented with their silhouettes. Lavater teaches how to use them to recognize who is intelligent and who stupid.50
Karp Dementich has a grey beard of eight vershok* counting down from his lower lip. His nose is like a stubby stick, eyes grey, sunken, a pitch-black brow, he bows deeply from the waist, he smooths his beard, he greets all flatteringly as “my benefactor.”—His dear wife is Aksinya Parfentyevna. At sixty years of age, white as snow, and ruddy as a poppy flower, she always purses her lips in a circle, before supper drinks half a cup of Rhine wine in the presence of guests and also a glass of vodka in the pantry. Her husband’s domestic manager keeps track…. At the request of Aksinya Parfentyevna, the annual store of three poods† of ceruse from Rzhev and 30 pounds of myrtle for rouge is purchased. The husband’s domestic managers are Aksinya’s chamberlains.—Alexei Karpovich is my neighbor at the table. Not a whisker nor yet a beard but his nose is already crimson, his brows twitch, his hair is cropped round, he bows like a goose, shaking his head and primping his hair. In Petersburg he was a shopkeeper’s boy. He deducts a vershok* from every arshin† of fabric he sells. For that reason, his father loves him like himself. When he was fourteen going on fifteen, he gave his mother a slap.—Paraskovya Denisovna, his newlywedded wife, is white and rosy. Teeth like coal.51 Eyebrows are thread-thin, blacker than soot. In company, she keeps her eyes lowered, but entire days she spends at the window and stares at every man. In the evening she stands by the gate.—She has one black eye. The gift of her darling little husband on their first day—your guess as good as mine for what.
But dear reader, you yawn already. Enough of my taking silhouettes, clearly. You are right: there will be nothing more than noses and lips, lips and noses. And for that matter I have no idea how you distinguish ceruse and rouge on a silhouette.
“Karp Dementich, what are you trading in nowadays? You don’t travel to Petersburg, do not transport flax, and you are buying neither sugar nor coffee nor pigments. It seems to me that your business was not unprofitable.” “I almost went bust from it. God saved us by a narrow squeak. In the one year in which I received adequate revenue I built this very house for my wife. The next year there was no harvest in flax and I was unable to deliver what my contract required. That’s why I ceased to trade.” “I recall, Karp Dementich, that in return for the thirty thousand rubles collected in advance you sent your creditors a thousand poods* of flax to be distributed among them.” “By God, more was impossible, trust my conscience.” “Of course, in the very same year the failed crop affected the trade in imported goods. You collected about twenty thousand worth of … Yes, I recall: that was some headache.” “Truly, my benefactor, my head ached so I thought it would burst. Yet what complaints could creditors have against me? I gave them my entire estate.” “At about three kopecks on the ruble.” “No way, not at all, it was about fifteen.” “And your wife’s house?” “How could I touch it? It’s not mine.” “Tell me then, what business are you doing?” “Nothing, swear to God, nothing. Since I entered a state of bankruptcy my boy has been doing the business. This summer, thank God, he delivered flax to the value of about twenty thousand.” “In future, of course, he will sign contracts for fifty thousand, will take half the money up front and will build his young wife a house….” Alexei Karpovich just smiles. “You are an old joker, my benefactor. Enough shooting the breeze: let’s get down to business.” “I don’t drink, you know.” “Well, just have a sip.”
Have a sip, have a sip—I sensed that my cheeks had begun to redden and that toward the end of the feast I would, like the others, be completely sozzled. But fortunately, one cannot sit at the table forever just as it’s impossible to be clever all the time. And for the very same reason I sometimes play the fool and rave I was sober at a wedding feast.
After leaving my acquaintance Karp Dementich, I fell to thinking. I had reckoned until then that the law of the promissory note introduced everywhere, that is the rigorous and expedient indemnification of commercial obligations, was a protection guaranteeing trust; I considered it a fortunate invention of modern times that had not occurred to the minds of ancient peoples for the enhancement of rapid turnover in commerce. But if the one who issues the credit note is less than honest, why is this little scrap of paper worthless? If the rigorous settlement of debt did not exist would trade vanish? Is it not for the creditor to know whom to trust? Whom should legislation be obligated to protect more, the creditor or the debtor? Who in the eyes of humanity deserves more respect, the creditor who forfeits his capital because he did not know the person to whom he entrusted it; or the debtor who is in chains and in prison? On the one hand, gullibility, on the other, practically thievery. The former gave his trust because he was relying on the law to be strict, but the latter…. But if the settlement of debentures was not so strict? There would be no place for ready credulity, perhaps there would be no chicanery in matters of credit…. I began to think again, the previous system had gone to the devil, and I went to bed with an empty head.
* nine miles—Trans.
* fourteen inches—Trans.
† one hundred and nine pounds—Trans.
* one and three-quarters inches—Trans.
† twenty-eight inches—Trans.
* thirteen tons—Trans.
BRONNITSY
Meanwhile as the horses to my carriage were being changed I conceived a wish to visit the tall mountain located near Bronnitsy on which, they say, in ancient times before the advent of the Slavs, I think, there stood a temple famed at the time for the prophesies it issued and to hear which many northern lords used to come. On this spot, it is recounted, where the village of Bronnitsy now stands, was the city of Kholmograd, famous in the ancient history of the north. Now a small church stands on the spot of this celebrated ancient temple.
In ascending the mountain, I imagined myself transported to antiquity, arriving so that I might learn the future from the majestic deity and bring calm to my uncertainty. Divine terror grips my limbs, my chest begins to heave, my gaze goes dull, and the light dims. I hear a voice, like thunder, proclaiming: “Mad man! Why do you wish to discover the mystery that I have obscured from mortals by the impenetrable shield of unknowability? Why, O arrogant one! do you crave to discover that which only eternal thought is able to grasp? Understand that the unknowability of the future is proportional to the fragility of your organism. Understand that bliss known beforehand loses its sweetness owing to overlong anticipation; that the delight of present pleasure, finding the organism’s energy depleted, is unable to produce in the soul as nice a quiver as pleasure receives from a surprise. Know that extinction revealed beforehand robs one of equanimity in an untimely way, poisons the pleasure you would enjoy if you were still ignorant of their termination. What is it that you seek, unreasonable child? My superior wisdom has instilled what is needed in your mind and heart. Consult them on days of sadness and you will find comforters. Consult them on days of rejoicing and you will find a curb on impudent happiness. Return to your home, return to your family; calm your disturbed thoughts; enter into your inner realm, there you will discover my godhead, there you will hear my prophesy.” And the cracking of a strong blow by Perun52 thundering in his domain resounded in the distant valleys.—I came to my senses.—I reached the summit of the mountain and, having spied the church, I raised my arms to the sky. “Lord,” I shouted out, “this is Your temple, this is the temple, they declare, of the true, one God. On this spot, on the spot where You dwell at this moment in time, they say there used to stand a temple of error. But I cannot believe, O! Almighty, that man sent his heartfelt prayer to s
ome being other than to You. Your mighty right hand, invisibly outstretched everywhere, compels even the denier of Your omnipotent will to acknowledge the architect and keeper of Nature. If a mortal in his error names You with strange, unbecoming, and beastly names, his reverence, all the same, flows to You, everlasting, and he quivers before Your might. Jehovah, Jupiter, Brahma; the God of Abraham, God of Moses, God of Confucius, God of Zoroaster, God of Socrates, God of Marcus Aurelius, Christian God, O my God! You are the same everywhere. If in their error mortals seemingly did not reverence You alone, they still worshipped Your incomparable powers, Your inimitable deeds. Your might, felt everywhere and in everything, was everywhere and in everything worshipped. By acknowledging the law of nature as constant, the atheist who renounces You in that very way bears You praise, praising You even more than our hymns. For moved to his inner core by the gracefulness of Your creation he faces it, trembling. “All-Generous Father, You seek a sincere heart and innocent soul; they are everywhere open to Your advent. Descend, Lord, and ensconce Yourself in them.” For several moments I was detached from the objects around me, withdrawing deep into my interior self—My eyes then raised, my gaze directed on the settlements nearby, I pronounced: “These huts are a degradation on the spot where once a great metropolis elevated its walls. Not even the smallest trace of them remains. Reason that so craves convincing and empirical proofs balks at belief in the very story.” And all that we see will pass; all will collapse, all will be dust. But some secret voice declares to me: something will continue to exist alive forever.
In the course of time all sounds will darken,
The brilliance of the sun will go out; nature, worn out
With the frailty of the years, falls
But you in immortal youth will flourish
Steadfast amidst the battle of the elements,
The ruins of matter, the destruction of all the worlds.*53
* Death of Cato, Addison’s tragedy, act V, scene 1.
ZAITSOVO
At the postal station in Zaitsovo, I came across my old acquaintance Mr. Krestyankin. We had known one another since our childhood days. It was rare for us to be in the same city, but while our conversations were infrequent they were sincere. Mr. Krestyankin had spent long years in military service, and having tired of its cruelties especially during war when great acts of violence are covered up as legitimate acts of war, moved into the civil service. To his misfortune even in the civil service he could not avoid the very thing he sought to distance himself from in quitting the military. The soul he possessed was very sensitive, and his heart was philanthropic. These excellent qualities, already recognized, gained him a position as a presiding judge in the criminal court. Initially, he was reluctant to assume this title. Having given it some thought, however, he told me: “My friend, what a broad field of action opens before me for the satisfaction of the fondest inclination of my soul! What an activity for tenderheartedness! Let us break the cruel scepter that so often weighs upon the shoulders of innocence. Let the prisons go empty, so that distracted weakness, careless inexperience may never see them; and bad luck never be treated as criminality. O my friend! My duty fulfilled, I shall shed parents’ tears for their children, the sighs of spouses for each other. But these tears shall be tears of renewal for the sake of good, while the tears of suffering innocence and simpleheartedness will dry up. How very much this thought delights me. Let us go and hasten my departure. It may be that my arrival there is needed and that any delay might turn me into a murderer should I fail to head off incarceration or accusations, by granting pardon or by freeing someone from their bondage.”
It was with these thoughts that my friend departed to his place of service. How very surprised I was to learn that he had quit his position and intended to spend his life in retirement.
“I thought, my friend,” said Mr. Krestyankin to me, “that I would find an abundant harvest, one rewarding to reason, in performing my job. Instead all I found was gall and thorns. Wearied of this, no longer strong enough to do any good, I have ceded my post to a truly predatory beast. In a short period, he has garnered praise by the prompt resolution of cases that have piled up, whereas I had the reputation of being on the slow side. Others considered me to be venal because I was in no rush to aggravate the lot of the miserable who had fallen into criminality often through no choice of their own. Before entering state service, I had acquired the reputation, flattering to me, of a philanthropic commander. Now, the very same quality that gladdened my heart so greatly—now it is regarded as a sign of lenience or unforgivable indulgence. I saw my decisions mocked for the very thing that made them perfect; I saw them left unimplemented. While my superior did not have the power to compel me to free a genuine villain and a dangerous member of society or to punish alleged crimes with the confiscation of property, honor, and forfeiture of life; or to encourage me to undertake illegal covering up of a crime or to prosecute innocence, I regarded with scorn that he succeeded in recruiting other members of the criminal chambers for this purpose. And so it was not rare for me to see my benevolent intentions go up like smoke disappearing into the air. As a reward for their deplorable complicity these members, however, received distinctions whose wrongness made them as lackluster in my eyes as they were appealing to the others. In difficult cases, when belief in the innocence of a person deemed to be a criminal aroused my inclination to be softhearted, it was not rare for me to resort to the law to brace myself against hesitation. But I often discovered in the law cruelty instead of love of mankind, and cruelty had its origin not in the law as such, but rather in the fact that the law was obsolete. Disproportion of punishment to crime frequently extracted tears from me. I saw (and how could this be otherwise) that the law forms judgments about actions without regard for the causes that bring them about. Indeed, it was a final instance relating to this type of action that obliged me to quit service. Unable as I was to save the people who were dragged into guilt by the powerful hand of fate, I had no wish to be a participant in their punishment. Unable as I was to ease their fate, in my innocence I washed my hands and shunned hardness of heart.
“In our province there lived a nobleman who had resigned from the service several years earlier. Here is his service record. He began service at court as a stoker, was promoted to lackey, then a lackey of the bedchamber, and then a butler.54 I have no idea what special qualities are required for advancement up these rungs of court service. But I do know that he loved wine more than his life. After about fifteen years in service as a butler, he was transferred to the Office of Heraldry to be appointed in accordance with his rank. However, sensing his own lack of competence, he made a request to take retirement and was rewarded with the rank of collegiate assessor, with which he arrived in the place where he had been born, that is, to our province, about six years ago. It is not rare for vanity to be the cause of notable affection for one’s homeland. The person of low social origins who has achieved distinction; or a poor man who has acquired wealth, once having cast off the inhibition of shame, which is the last and weakest root of virtue, prefers the place of his birth for the display of his grandeur and pride. There, soon enough, the assessor found occasion to buy a village in which he settled with his not small family. Had there been born among us a Hogarth he would have found in the family of Mr. Assessor a rich vein of caricature. I am but a poor artist. However, if I were able to discern the inner characteristics of a man in the features of his face with the same penetration of a Lavater,55 even then a portrait of the assessor’s family would be noteworthy. Lacking these talents, I will make their deeds speak for themselves—these are always the true indicators of a moral disposition.
“Mr. Assessor, descended from the lowest class, found himself to be the master of several hundred of his fellow human beings. This turned his head. He would not be the only one to protest that the exercise of power turns one’s head. He regarded his own rank as the highest, regarded the peasants as livestock given to him to be deployed as labor at his
discretion (it is not unlikely that he considered that his power over them derived from God). He was mercenary, squirreling away money, cruel by nature, querulous, base, and therefore arrogant toward the very weakest. You can judge from this how he got on with the peasants. Under the previous landowner they had been on a quitrent basis; he settled them on a tillage basis. He confiscated all their land, bought from them their livestock at a price he set himself, obliged them to work the entire week for him, and, to prevent them from dying of starvation, fed them in the courtyard of the manor house, and then not more than once daily, and to some he gifted a monthly charitable allowance. If anyone looked lazy to him, he birched, whipped, clubbed, and beat them with a cat-o’-nine-tails calibrated to the degree of indolence. When it came to real crimes such as theft from others than himself, he said not a word. It looked as though he wanted in his village to revive the ways of ancient Sparta or the Zaporozhian Host.56 It came to pass that for subsistence his peasants robbed one traveler and then later killed another. He did not surrender them to justice but hid them at home, telling the authorities that they had fled. He maintained that he would not profit if a peasant of his were to be lashed with the knout and sent to do hard labor for a crime. If one of his peasants committed robbery against him, he whipped him as he did for indolence or for making a bold or witty challenge and in addition put them in the stocks, clapped their legs in chains, and put a harness around their neck. I could tell you many a tale of the clever orders he gave, but this will suffice to introduce you to my hero. His consort maintained total power over the womenfolk. Her abettors in implementing her orders were her sons and daughters, as they were for her husband. This was because they had made it a rule on no account to distract their peasants from work. For domestic staff, they had a boy purchased in Moscow, a hairdresser for their daughters, and an elderly female cook. They had neither a coachman nor horses; they always used the draft horses to travel. The sons personally birched the peasants or whipped them with a cat-o’-nine-tails. The daughters slapped the women and girls on the face, or pulled their hair. In their free time, the sons roamed the village or the fields to flirt and to debauch girls and women, and none could escape being raped by them. Because the daughters did not have suitors, they vented their frustration on the spinning women, many of whom they disfigured. My friend, judge for yourself what outcome deeds like these might have. From a large number of cases, I have established that the Russian people are extremely patient and will remain patient to the very limit. But when their patience is at an end then nothing can avert them from turning to cruelty. This is precisely what happened with the assessor. The terrible and senseless—or perhaps it would be better to say beastly—act of one of his sons provided such a cause.
Journey from St. Petersburg to Moscow Page 9