the wife and other stories-第29节

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window　without　speaking；　would　think　a　moment；　then　would　turn　round　to　me　and；　trying　to　prevent　my　reading　the　truth　in　his　face；　would　say　in　a　careless　tone：　〃So　far　I　see　nothing　serious；　but　at　the　same　time；　_collega_；　I　advise　you　to　lay　aside　your　work。　。　。　。〃　And　that　would　deprive　me　of　my　last　hope。

Who　is　without　hope？　Now　that　I　am　diagnosing　my　illness　and　prescribing　for　myself；　from　time　to　time　I　hope　that　I　am　deceived　by　my　own　illness；　that　I　am　mistaken　in　regard　to　the　albumen　and　the　sugar　I　find；　and　in　regard　to　my　heart；　and　in　regard　to　the　swellings　I　have　twice　noticed　in　the　mornings；　when　with　the　fervour　of　the　hypochondriac　I　look　through　the　textbooks　of　therapeutics　and　take　a　different　medicine　every　day；　I　keep　fancying　that　I　shall　hit　upon　something　comforting。　All　that　is　petty。

Whether　the　sky　is　covered　with　clouds　or　the　moon　and　the　stars　are　shining；　I　turn　my　eyes　towards　it　every　evening　and　think　that　death　is　taking　me　soon。　One　would　think　that　my　thoughts　at　such　times　ought　to　be　deep　as　the　sky；　brilliant；　striking。　。　。　。　But　no！　I　think　about　myself；　about　my　wife；　about　Liza；　Gnekker；　the　students；　people　in　general；　my　thoughts　are　evil；　petty；　I　am　insincere　with　myself；　and　at　such　times　my　theory　of　life　may　be　expressed　in　the　words　the　celebrated　Araktcheev　said　in　one　of　his　intimate　letters：　〃Nothing　good　can　exist　in　the　world　without　evil；　and　there　is　more　evil　than　good。〃　That　is；　everything　is　disgusting；　there　is　nothing　to　live　for；　and　the　sixty…two　years　I　have　already　lived　must　be　reckoned　as　wasted。　I　catch　myself　in　these　thoughts；　and　try　to　persuade　myself　that　they　are　accidental；　temporary；　and　not　deeply　rooted　in　me；　but　at　once　I　think：

〃If　so；　what　drives　me　every　evening　to　those　two　toads？〃

And　I　vow　to　myself　that　I　will　never　go　to　Katya's　again；　though　I　know　I　shall　go　next　evening。

Ringing　the　bell　at　the　door　and　going　upstairs；　I　feel　that　I　have　no　family　now　and　no　desire　to　bring　it　back　again。　It　is　clear　that　the　new　Araktcheev　thoughts　are　not　casual；　temporary　visitors；　but　have　possession　of　my　whole　being。　With　my　conscience　ill　at　ease；　dejected；　languid；　hardly　able　to　move　my　limbs；　feeling　as　though　tons　were　added　to　my　weight；　I　get　into　bed　and　quickly　drop　asleep。

And　then　　insomnia！

IV

Summer　comes　on　and　life　is　changed。

One　fine　morning　Liza　comes　in　to　me　and　says　in　a　jesting　tone：

〃Come；　your　Excellency！　We　are　ready。〃

My　Excellency　is　conducted　into　the　street；　and　seated　in　a　cab。　As　I　go　along；　having　nothing　to　do；　I　read　the　signboards　from　right　to　left。　The　word　〃Traktir〃　reads　〃　Ritkart〃；　that　would　just　suit　some　baron's　family：　Baroness　Ritkart。　Farther　on　I　drive　through　fields；　by　the　graveyard；　which　makes　absolutely　no　impression　on　me；　though　I　shall　soon　lie　in　it；　then　I　drive　by　forests　and　again　by　fields。　There　is　nothing　of　interest。　After　two　hours　of　driving；　my　Excellency　is　conducted　into　the　lower　storey　of　a　summer　villa　and　installed　in　a　small；　very　cheerful　little　room　with　light　blue　hangings。

At　night　there　is　sleeplessness　as　before；　but　in　the　morning　I　do　not　put　a　good　face　upon　it　and　listen　to　my　wife；　but　lie　in　bed。　I　do　not　sleep；　but　lie　in　the　drowsy；　half…conscious　condition　in　which　you　know　you　are　not　asleep；　but　dreaming。　At　midday　I　get　up　and　from　habit　sit　down　at　my　table；　but　I　do　not　work　now；　I　amuse　myself　with　French　books　in　yellow　covers；　sent　me　by　Katya。　Of　course；　it　would　be　more　patriotic　to　read　Russian　authors；　but　I　must　confess　I　cherish　no　particular　liking　for　them。　With　the　exception　of　two　or　three　of　the　older　writers；　all　our　literature　of　today　strikes　me　as　not　being　literature；　but　a　special　sort　of　home　industry；　which　exists　simply　in　order　to　be　encouraged；　though　people　do　not　readily　make　use　of　its　products。　The　very　best　of　these　home　products　cannot　be　called　remarkable　and　cannot　be　sincerely　praised　without　qualification。　I　must　say　the　same　of　all　the　literary　novelties　I　have　read　during　the　last　ten　or　fifteen　years；　not　one　of　them　is　remarkable；　and　not　one　of　them　can　be　praised　without　a　〃but。〃　Cleverness；　a　good　tone；　but　no　talent；　talent；　a　good　tone；　but　no　cleverness；　or　talent；　cleverness；　but　not　a　good　tone。

I　don't　say　the　French　books　have　talent；　cleverness；　and　a　good　tone。　They　don't　satisfy　me；　either。　But　they　are　not　so　tedious　as　the　Russian；　and　it　is　not　unusual　to　find　in　them　the　chief　element　of　artistic　creation　　the　feeling　of　personal　freedom　which　is　lacking　in　the　Russian　authors。　I　don't　remember　one　new　book　in　which　the　author　does　not　try　from　the　first　page　to　entangle　himself　in　all　sorts　of　conditions　and　contracts　with　his　conscience。　One　is　afraid　to　speak　of　the　naked　body；　another　ties　himself　up　hand　and　foot　in　psychological　analysis；　a　third　must　have　a　〃warm　attitude　to　man〃；　a　fourth　purposely　scrawls　whole　descriptions　of　nature　that　he　may　not　be　suspected　of　writing　with　a　purpose。　。　。　。　One　is　bent　upon　being　middle…class　in　his　work；　another　must　be　a　nobleman；　and　so　on。　There　is　intentionalness；　circumspection；　and　self…will；　but　they　have　neither　the　independence　nor　the　manliness　to　write　as　they　like；　and　therefore　there　is　no　creativeness。

All　this　applies　to　what　is　called　belles…lettres。

As　for　serious　treatises　in　Russian　on　sociology；　for　instance；　on　art；　and　so　on；　I　do　not　rea　d　them　simply　from　timidity。　In　my　childhood　and　early　youth　I　had　for　some　reason　a　terror　of　doorkeepers　and　attendants　at　the　theatre；　and　that　terror　has　remained　with　me　to　this　day。　I　am　afraid　of　them　even　now。　It　is　said　that　we　are　only　afraid　of　what　we　do　not　understand。　And；　indeed；　it　is　very　difficult　to　understand　why　doorkeepers　and　theatre　attendants　are　so　dignified；　haughty；　and　majestically　rude。　I　feel　exactly　the　same　terror　when　I　read　serious　articles。　Their　extraordinary　dignity；　their　bantering　lordly　tone；　their　familiar　manner　to　foreign　authors；　their　ability　to　split　straws　with　dignity　　all　that　is　beyond　my　understanding；　it　is　intimidating　and　utterly　unlike　the　quiet；　gentlemanly　tone　to　which　I　am　accustomed　when　I　read　the　works　of　our　medical　and　scientific　writers。　It　oppresses　me　to　read　not　only　the　articles　written　by　serious　Russians；　but　even　works　translated　or　edited　by　them。　The　pretentious；　edifying　tone　of　the　preface；　the　redundancy　of　remarks　made　by　the　translator；　which　prevent　me　from　concentrating　my　attention；　the　question　marks　and　〃sic〃　in　parenthesis　scattered　all　over　the　book　or　article　by　the　liberal　translator；　are　to　my　mind　an　outrage　on　the　author　and　on　my　independence　as　a　reader。

Once　I　was　summoned　as　an　expert　to　a　circuit　court；　in　an　interval　one　of　my　fellow…experts　drew　my　attention　to　the　rudeness　of　the　public　prosecutor　to　the　defendants；　among　whom　there　were　two　ladies　of　good　education。　I　believe　I　did　not　exaggerate　at　all　when　I　told　him　that　the　prosecutor　s　manner　was　no　ruder　than　that　of　the　authors　of　serious　articles　to　one　another。　Their　manners　are；　indeed；　so　rude　that　I　cannot　speak　of　them　without　distaste。　They　treat　one　another　and　the　writers　they　criticize　either　with　superfluous　respect；　at　the　sacrifice　of　their　own　dignity；　or；　on　the　contrary；　with　far　more　ruthlessness　than　I　have　shown　in　my　notes　and　my　thoughts　in　regard　to　my　future　son…in…law　Gnekker。　Accusations　of　irrationality；　of　evil　intentions；　and；　indeed；　of　every　sort　of　crime；　form　an　habitual　ornament　of　serious　articles。　And　that；　as　young　medical　men　are　fond　of　saying　in　their　monographs；　is　the　_ultima　ratio！_　Such　ways　must　infallibly　have　an　effect　on　the　morals　of　the　younger　generation　of　writers；　and　so　I　am　not　at　all　surprised　that　in　the　new　works　with　which　our　literature　has　been　enriched　during　the　last　ten　or　fifteen　years　the　heroes　drink　too　much　vodka　and　the　heroines　are　not　over…chaste。

I　read　French　books；　and　I　look　out　of　the　window　which　is　open；　I　can　see　the　spikes　of　my　garden…fence；　two　or　three　scraggy　trees；　and　beyond　the　fence　the　road；　the　fields；　and　beyond　them　a　broad　stretch　of　pine…wood。　Often　I　admire　a　boy　and　girl；　both　flaxen…headed　and　ragged；　who　clamber　on　the　fence　and　laugh　at　my　baldness。　In　their　shining　little　eyes　I　read；　〃Go　up；　go　up；　thou　baldhead！〃　They　are　almost　the　only　people　who　care　nothing　for　my　celebrity　or　my　rank。

Visitors　do　not　come　to　me　every　day　now。　I　will　only　mention　the　visits　of　Nikolay　and　Pyotr　Ignatyevitch。　Nikolay　usually　comes　to　me　on　holidays；　with　some　pretext　of　business；　though　really　to　see　me。　He　arrives　very　much　exhilarated；　a　thing　which　never　occurs　to　him　in　the　winter。

〃What　have　you　to　tell　me？〃　I　ask；　going　out　to　him　in　the　hall。

〃Your　Excellency！〃　he　says；　pressing　his　hand　to　his　heart　and　looking　at　me　with　the　ecstasy　of　a　lover　　〃your　Excellency！　God　be　my　witness！　Strike　me　dead　on　the　spot！　_Gaudeamus　egitur　juventus！_〃

And　he　greedily　kisses　me　on　the　shoulder；　on　the　sleeve；　and　on　the　buttons。

〃Is　everything　going　well？〃　I　ask　him。

〃Your　Excellency！　So　help　me　God！　。　。　。〃

He　persists　in　grovelling　before　me　for　no　sort　of　reason；　and　soon　bores　me；　so　I　sen