inclination… for what?—why, for the beautiful… and so on. In the university I went on in the same way; I promptly got into a «circle.» Times were different then…. But you don’t know, perhaps, what sort of thing a student’s «circle» is? I remember Schiller said somewhere:
_Gefährlich ist’s den Leu zu wecken Und schrecklich ist des Tigers Zahn, Doch das schrecklichste der Schrecken Das ist der Mensch in seinem Wahn!_
He didn’t mean that, I can assure you; he meant to say: Das ist ein circle _in der Stadt Moskau_!’
‘But what do you find so awful in the circle?’ I asked.
My neighbour snatched his cap and pulled it down on to his nose.
‘What do I find so awful?’ he shouted. ‘Why, this: the circle is the destruction of all independent development; the circle is a hideous substitute for society, woman, life; the circle… oh, wait a bit, I’ll tell you what a circle is! A circle is a slothful, dull living side by side in common, to which is attached a serious significance and a show of rational activity; the circle replaces conversation by debate, trains you in fruitless discussion, draws you away from solitary, useful labour, develops in you the itch for authorship—deprives you, in fact, of all freshness and virgin vigour of soul. The circle—why, it’s vulgarity and boredom under the name of brotherhood and friendship! a concatenation of misunderstandings and cavillings under the pretence of openness and sympathy: in the circle—thanks to the right of every friend, at all hours and seasons, to poke his unwashed fingers into the very inmost soul of his comrade—no one has a single spot in his soul pure and undefiled; in the circle they fall down before the shallow, vain, smart talker and the premature wise-acre, and worship the rhymester with no poetic gift, but full of «subtle» ideas; in the circle young lads of seventeen talk glibly and learnedly of women and of love, while in the presence of women they are dumb or talk to them like a book—and what do they talk about? The circle is the hot-bed of glib fluency; in the circle they spy on one another like so many police officials…. Oh, circle! thou’rt not a circle, but an enchanted ring, which has been the ruin of many a decent fellow!’
‘Come, you’re exaggerating, allow me to observe,’ I broke in.
My neighbour looked at me in silence.
‘Perhaps, God knows, perhaps. But, you see, there’s only one pleasure left your humble servant, and that’s exaggeration—well, that was the way I spent four years in Moscow. I can’t tell you, my dear sir, how quickly, how fearfully quickly, that time passed; it’s positively painful and vexatious to remember. Some mornings one gets up, and it’s like sliding downhill on little sledges…. Before one can look round, one’s flown to the bottom; it’s evening already, and already the sleepy servant is pulling on one’s coat; one dresses, and trails off to a friend, and may be smokes a pipe, drinks weak tea in glasses, and discusses German philosophy, love, the eternal sunshine of the spirit, and other far-fetched topics. But even there I met original, independent people: however some men stultify themselves and warp themselves out of shape, still nature asserts itself; I alone, poor wretch, moulded myself like soft wax, and my pitiful little nature never made the faintest resistance! Meantime I had reached my twenty-first year. I came into possession of my inheritance, or, more correctly speaking, that part of my inheritance which my guardian had thought fit to leave me, gave a freed house-serf Vassily Kudryashev a warranty to superintend all my patrimony, and set off abroad to Berlin. I was abroad, as I have already had the pleasure of telling you, three years. Well. There too, abroad too, I remained the same unoriginal creature. In the first place, I need not say that of Europe, of European life, I really learnt nothing. I listened to German professors and read German books on their birthplace: that was all the difference. I led as solitary a life as any monk; I got on good terms with a retired lieutenant, weighed down, like myself, by a thirst for knowledge but always dull of comprehension, and not gifted with a flow of words; I made friends with slow-witted families from Penza and other agricultural provinces, hung about _cafés_, read the papers, in the evening went to the theatre. With the natives I associated very little; I talked to them with constraint, and never had one of them to see me at my own place, except two or three intrusive fellows of Jewish extraction, who were constantly running in upon me and borrowing money—thanks to _der Russe’s_ gullibility. A strange freak of chance brought me at last to the house of one of my professors. It was like this: I came to him to enter my name for a course of lectures, and he, all of a sudden, invited me to an evening party at his house. This professor had two daughters, of twenty-seven, such stumpy little things—God bless them!—with such majestic noses, frizzed curls and pale-blue eyes, and red hands with white nails. One was called Linchen and the other Minchen. I began to go to the professor’s. I ought to tell you that the professor was not exactly stupid, but seemed, as it were, dazed: in his professorial desk he spoke fairly consecutively, but at home he lisped, and always had his spectacles on his forehead—he was a very learned man, though. Well, suddenly it seemed to me that I was in love with Linchen, and for six whole months this impression remained. I talked to her, it’s true, very little—it was more that I looked at her; but I used to read various touching passages aloud to her, to press her hand on the sly, and to dream beside her in the evenings, gazing persistently at the moon, or else simply up aloft. Besides, she made such delicious coffee! One asks oneself—what more could one desire? Only one thing troubled me: at the very moments of ineffable bliss, as it’s called, I always had a sort of sinking in the pit of the stomach, and a cold shudder ran down my back. At last I could not stand such happiness, and ran away. Two whole years after that I was abroad: I went to Italy, stood before the Transfiguration in Rome, and before the Venus in Florence, and suddenly fell into exaggerated raptures, as though an attack of delirium had come upon me; in the evenings I wrote verses, began a diary; in fact, there too I behaved just like everyone else. And just mark how easy it is to be original! I take no interest, for instance, in painting and sculpture…. But simply saying so aloud… no, it was impossible! I must needs take a cicerone, and run to gaze at the frescoes.’…
He looked down again, and again pulled off his nightcap.
‘Well, I came back to my own country at last,’ he went on in a weary voice. ‘I went to Moscow. In Moscow a marvellous transformation took place in me. Abroad I was mostly silent, but now suddenly I began to talk with unexpected smartness, and at the same time I began to conceive all sorts of ideas of myself. There were kindly disposed persons to be found, to whom I seemed all but a genius; ladies listened sympathetically to my diatribes; but I was not able to keep on the summit of my glory. One fine morning a slander sprang up about me (who had originated it, I don’t know; it must have been some old maid of the male sex—there are any number of such old maids in Moscow); it sprang up and began to throw off outshoots and tendrils like a strawberry plant. I was abashed, tried to get out of it, to break through its clinging toils—that was no good…. I went away. Well, in that too I showed that I was an absurd person; I ought to have calmly waited for the storm to blow over, just as one waits for the end of nettle-rash, and the same kindly-disposed persons would have opened their arms to me again, the same ladies would have smiled approvingly again at my remarks…. But what’s wrong is just that I’m not an original person. Conscientious scruples, please to observe, had been stirred up in me; I was somehow ashamed of talk, talk without ceasing, nothing but talk—yesterday in Arbat, to-day in Truba, to-morrow in Sivtsevy-Vrazhky, and all about the same thing…. But if that is what people want of me? Look at the really successful men in that line: they don’t ask its use; on the contrary, it’s all they need; some will keep their tongues wagging twenty years together, and always in one direction…. That’s what comes of self-confidence and conceit! I had that too, conceit—indeed, even now it’s not altogether stifled…. But what was wrong was that—I say again, I’m not an original person—I stopped midway: nature ought to have given me far more conceit or none at all. But at first I felt the change a very hard one; moreover, my stay abroad too had utterly drained my resources, while I was not disposed to marry a merchant’s daughter, young, but flabby as a jelly, so I retired to my country place. I fancy,’ added my neighbour, with another glance sideways at me, ‘I may pass over in silence the first impressions of country life, references to the beauty of nature, the
