Dead Souls (36 page)

The foregoing will give the reader a pretty clear idea of the manner
in which it was possible for this man of thirty-three to waste his
time. Clad constantly in slippers and a dressing-gown, Tientietnikov
never went out, never indulged in any form of dissipation, and never
walked upstairs. Nothing did he care for fresh air, and would bestow
not a passing glance upon all those beauties of the countryside which
moved visitors to such ecstatic admiration. From this the reader will
see that Andrei Ivanovitch Tientietnikov belonged to that band of
sluggards whom we always have with us, and who, whatever be their
present appellation, used to be known by the nicknames of "lollopers,"
"bed pressers," and "marmots." Whether the type is a type originating
at birth, or a type resulting from untoward circumstances in later
life, it is impossible to say. A better course than to attempt to
answer that question would be to recount the story of Tientietnikov's
boyhood and upbringing.

Everything connected with the latter seemed to promise success, for at
twelve years of age the boy—keen-witted, but dreamy of temperament,
and inclined to delicacy—was sent to an educational establishment
presided over by an exceptional type of master. The idol of his
pupils, and the admiration of his assistants, Alexander Petrovitch
was gifted with an extraordinary measure of good sense. How thoroughly
he knew the peculiarities of the Russian of his day! How well he
understood boys! How capable he was of drawing them out! Not a
practical joker in the school but, after perpetrating a prank, would
voluntarily approach his preceptor and make to him free confession.
True, the preceptor would put a stern face upon the matter, yet the
culprit would depart with head held higher, not lower, than before,
since in Alexander Petrovitch there was something which
heartened—something which seemed to say to a delinquent: "Forward
you! Rise to your feet again, even though you have fallen!" Not
lectures on good behaviour was it, therefore, that fell from his lips,
but rather the injunction, "I want to see intelligence, and nothing
else. The boy who devotes his attention to becoming clever will never
play the fool, for under such circumstances, folly disappears of
itself." And so folly did, for the boy who failed to strive in the
desired direction incurred the contempt of all his comrades, and even
dunces and fools of senior standing did not dare to raise a finger
when saluted by their juniors with opprobrious epithets. Yet "This is
too much," certain folk would say to Alexander. "The result will be
that your students will turn out prigs." "But no," he would reply.
"Not at all. You see, I make it my principle to keep the incapables
for a single term only, since that is enough for them; but to the
clever ones I allot a double course of instruction." And, true enough,
any lad of brains was retained for this finishing course. Yet he did
not repress all boyish playfulness, since he declared it to be as
necessary as a rash to a doctor, inasmuch as it enabled him to
diagnose what lay hidden within.

Consequently, how the boys loved him! Never was there such an
attachment between master and pupils. And even later, during the
foolish years, when foolish things attract, the measure of affection
which Alexander Petrovitch retained was extraordinary. In fact, to the
day of his death, every former pupil would celebrate the birthday of
his late master by raising his glass in gratitude to the mentor dead
and buried—then close his eyelids upon the tears which would come
trickling through them. Even the slightest word of encouragement from
Alexander Petrovitch could throw a lad into a transport of tremulous
joy, and arouse in him an honourable emulation of his fellows. Boys of
small capacity he did not long retain in his establishment; whereas
those who possessed exceptional talent he put through an extra course
of schooling. This senior class—a class composed of
specially-selected pupils—was a very different affair from what
usually obtains in other colleges. Only when a boy had attained its
ranks did Alexander demand of him what other masters indiscreetly
require of mere infants—namely the superior frame of mind which,
while never indulging in mockery, can itself bear ridicule, and
disregard the fool, and keep its temper, and repress itself, and
eschew revenge, and calmly, proudly retain its tranquillity of soul.
In short, whatever avails to form a boy into a man of assured
character, that did Alexander Petrovitch employ during the pupil's
youth, as well as constantly put him to the test. How well he
understood the art of life!

Of assistant tutors he kept but few, since most of the necessary
instruction he imparted in person, and, without pedantic terminology
and inflated diction and views, could so transmit to his listeners the
inmost spirit of a lesson that even the youngest present absorbed its
essential elements. Also, of studies he selected none but those which
may help a boy to become a good citizen; and therefore most of the
lectures which he delivered consisted of discourses on what may be
awaiting a youth, as well as of such demarcations of life's field that
the pupil, though seated, as yet, only at the desk, could beforehand
bear his part in that field both in thought and spirit. Nor did the
master CONCEAL anything. That is to say, without mincing words, he
invariably set before his hearers the sorrows and the difficulties
which may confront a man, the trials and the temptations which may
beset him. And this he did in terms as though, in every possible
calling and capacity, he himself had experienced the same.
Consequently, either the vigorous development of self-respect or the
constant stimulus of the master's eye (which seemed to say to the
pupil, "Forward!"—that word which has become so familiar to the
contemporary Russian, that word which has worked such wonders upon his
sensitive temperament); one or the other, I repeat, would from the
first cause the pupil to tackle difficulties, and only difficulties,
and to hunger for prowess only where the path was arduous, and
obstacles were many, and it was necessary to display the utmost
strength of mind. Indeed, few completed the course of which I have
spoken without issuing therefrom reliable, seasoned fighters who could
keep their heads in the most embarrassing of official positions, and
at times when older and wiser men, distracted with the annoyances of
life, had either abandoned everything or, grown slack and indifferent,
had surrendered to the bribe-takers and the rascals. In short, no
ex-pupil of Alexander Petrovitch ever wavered from the right road,
but, familiar with life and with men, armed with the weapons of
prudence, exerted a powerful influence upon wrongdoers.

For a long time past the ardent young Tientietnikov's excitable heart
had also beat at the thought that one day he might attain the senior
class described. And, indeed, what better teacher could he have had
befall him than its preceptor? Yet just at the moment when he had been
transferred thereto, just at the moment when he had reached the
coveted position, did his instructor come suddenly by his death! This
was indeed a blow for the boy—indeed a terrible initial loss! In his
eyes everything connected with the school seemed to undergo a
change—the chief reason being the fact that to the place of the
deceased headmaster there succeeded a certain Thedor Ivanovitch, who
at once began to insist upon certain external rules, and to demand of
the boys what ought rightly to have been demanded only of adults. That
is to say, since the lads' frank and open demeanour savoured to him
only of lack of discipline, he announced (as though in deliberate
spite of his predecessor) that he cared nothing for progress and
intellect, but that heed was to be paid only to good behaviour. Yet,
curiously enough, good behaviour was just what he never obtained, for
every kind of secret prank became the rule; and while, by day, there
reigned restraint and conspiracy, by night there began to take place
chambering and wantonness.

Also, certain changes in the curriculum of studies came about, for
there were engaged new teachers who held new views and opinions, and
confused their hearers with a multitude of new terms and phrases, and
displayed in their exposition of things both logical sequence and a
zest for modern discovery and much warmth of individual bias. Yet
their instruction, alas! contained no LIFE—in the mouths of those
teachers a dead language savoured merely of carrion. Thus everything
connected with the school underwent a radical alteration, and respect
for authority and the authorities waned, and tutors and ushers came to
be dubbed "Old Thedor," "Crusty," and the like. And sundry other
things began to take place—things which necessitated many a penalty
and expulsion; until, within a couple of years, no one who had known
the school in former days would now have recognised it.

Nevertheless Tientietnikov, a youth of retiring disposition,
experienced no leanings towards the nocturnal orgies of his
companions, orgies during which the latter used to flirt with damsels
before the very windows of the headmaster's rooms, nor yet towards
their mockery of all that was sacred, simply because fate had cast in
their way an injudicious priest. No, despite its dreaminess, his soul
ever remembered its celestial origin, and could not be diverted from
the path of virtue. Yet still he hung his head, for, while his
ambition had come to life, it could find no sort of outlet. Truly
'twere well if it had NOT come to life, for throughout the time that
he was listening to professors who gesticulated on their chairs he
could not help remembering the old preceptor who, invariably cool and
calm, had yet known how to make himself understood. To what subjects,
to what lectures, did the boy not have to listen!—to lectures on
medicine, and on philosophy, and on law, and on a version of general
history so enlarged that even three years failed to enable the
professor to do more than finish the introduction thereto, and also
the account of the development of some self-governing towns in
Germany. None of the stuff remained fixed in Tientietnikov's brain
save as shapeless clots; for though his native intellect could not
tell him how instruction ought to be imparted, it at least told him
that THIS was not the way. And frequently, at such moments he would
recall Alexander Petrovitch, and give way to such grief that scarcely
did he know what he was doing.

But youth is fortunate in the fact that always before it there lies a
future; and in proportion as the time for his leaving school drew
nigh, Tientietnikov's heart began to beat higher and higher, and he
said to himself: "This is not life, but only a preparation for life.
True life is to be found in the Public Service. There at least will
there be scope for activity." So, bestowing not a glance upon that
beautiful corner of the world which never failed to strike the guest
or chance visitor with amazement, and reverencing not a whit the dust
of his ancestors, he followed the example of most ambitious men of his
class by repairing to St. Petersburg (whither, as we know, the more
spirited youth of Russia from every quarter gravitates—there to enter
the Public Service, to shine, to obtain promotion, and, in a word, to
scale the topmost peaks of that pale, cold, deceptive elevation which
is known as society). But the real starting-point of Tientietnikov's
ambition was the moment when his uncle (one State Councillor Onifri
Ivanovitch) instilled into him the maxim that the only means to
success in the Service lay in good handwriting, and that, without that
accomplishment, no one could ever hope to become a Minister or
Statesman. Thus, with great difficulty, and also with the help of his
uncle's influence, young Tientietnikov at length succeeded in being
posted to a Department. On the day that he was conducted into a
splendid, shining hall—a hall fitted with inlaid floors and lacquered
desks as fine as though this were actually the place where the great
ones of the Empire met for discussion of the fortunes of the State; on
the day that he saw legions of handsome gentlemen of the quill-driving
profession making loud scratchings with pens, and cocking their heads
to one side; lastly on the day that he saw himself also allotted a
desk, and requested to copy a document which appeared purposely to be
one of the pettiest possible order (as a matter of fact it related to
a sum of three roubles, and had taken half a year to produce)—well,
at that moment a curious, an unwonted sensation seized upon the
inexperienced youth, for the gentlemen around him appeared so exactly
like a lot of college students. And, the further to complete the
resemblance, some of them were engaged in reading trashy translated
novels, which they kept hurriedly thrusting between the sheets of
their apportioned work whenever the Director appeared, as though to
convey the impression that it was to that work alone that they were
applying themselves. In short, the scene seemed to Tientietnikov
strange, and his former pursuits more important than his present, and
his preparation for the Service preferable to the Service itself. Yes,
suddenly he felt a longing for his old school; and as suddenly, and
with all the vividness of life, there appeared before his vision the
figure of Alexander Petrovitch. He almost burst into tears as he
beheld his old master, and the room seemed to swim before his eyes,
and the tchinovniks and the desks to become a blur, and his sight to
grow dim. Then he thought to himself with an effort: "No, no! I WILL
apply myself to my work, however petty it be at first." And hardening
his heart and recovering his spirit, he determined then and there to
perform his duties in such a manner as should be an example to the rest.

But where are compensations to be found? Even in St. Petersburg,
despite its grim and murky exterior, they exist. Yes, even though
thirty degrees of keen, cracking frost may have bound the streets, and
the family of the North Wind be wailing there, and the Snowstorm Witch
have heaped high the pavements, and be blinding the eyes, and
powdering beards and fur collars and the shaggy manes of horses—even
THEN there will be shining hospitably through the swirling
snowflakes a fourth-floor window where, in a cosy room, and by the
light of modest candles, and to the hiss of the samovar, there will be
in progress a discussion which warms the heart and soul, or else a
reading aloud of a brilliant page of one of those inspired Russian
poets with whom God has dowered us, while the breast of each member of
the company is heaving with a rapture unknown under a noontide sky.