"Are you really serious?" Madame Virginsky turned to the lame man even somewhat alarmed. "If this man, not knowing what to do about the people, turns nine tenths of them into slavery? I've long suspected him."
"Your own dear brother, you mean?" the lame man asked.
"Family ties? Are you laughing at me or not?"
"And, besides, to work for the aristocrats and obey them as if they were gods is vileness!" the girl student observed furiously.
"What I propose is not vileness but paradise, earthly paradise, and there can be no other on earth," Shigalyov concluded imperiously.
"Instead of paradise," Lyamshin shouted, "I'd take these nine tenths of mankind, since there's really nothing to do about them, and blow them sky-high, and leave just a bunch of learned people who would then start living happily in an educated way."[151]
"Only a buffoon could talk like that," the girl student flared up.
"He is a buffoon, but he's useful," Madame Virginsky whispered to her.
"And that might be the best solution of the problem," Shigalyov turned hotly to Lyamshin. "You, of course, don't even know what a profound thing you've managed to say, mister funny fellow. But since your idea is almost unrealizable, we must limit ourselves to the earthly paradise, if that's what we're calling it."
"That's a lot of nonsense, however!" escaped, as it were, from Verkhovensky. Nevertheless he went on cutting his nails with complete indifference and without raising his eyes.
"Why nonsense, sir?" the lame man picked up at once, as if he had just been waiting for his first word in order to seize upon it. "Why nonsense precisely? Mr. Shigalyov is somewhat of a fanatic in his love of mankind; but remember that in Fourier, in Cabet, and even in Proudhon himself,[152] there are many quite despotic and fantastic pre-resolutions of the problem. Mr. Shigalyov perhaps resolves the matter even far more soberly than they do. I assure you that after reading his book, it is almost impossible to disagree with some things. He is perhaps least distant of all from realism, and his earthly paradise is almost the real one, the very one mankind sighs for the loss of, if indeed it ever existed."
"Well, I just knew I was letting myself in for it," Verkhovensky muttered again.
"Excuse me, sir," the lame man was seething more and more, "conversations and judgments about the future social organization are an almost imperative necessity of all modern thinking people. Herzen spent his whole life worrying about just that. Belinsky, as I know for certain, passed whole evenings with his friends debating and pre-resolving beforehand even the pettiest kitchen details, so to speak, in the future social arrangement."
"Some even lose their minds," the major suddenly remarked.
"Still, it's possible to agree on something at least, rather than sit looking like dictators and say nothing," Liputin hissed, as if finally daring to begin an attack.
"When I said it was nonsense, I didn't mean Shigalyov," mumbled Verkhovensky. "You see, gentlemen," he raised his eyes a bit, "I think all these books, these Fouriers, Cabets, all these 'rights to work,' Shigalyovism[153]—it's all like novels, of which a hundred thousand can be written. An aesthetic pastime. I understand that you're bored in this wretched little town, so you fall on any paper with writing on it."
"Excuse me, sir," the lame man was twitching on his chair, "though we are provincials, and are most certainly deserving of pity for that, nevertheless we know that so far nothing so new has happened in the world that we should weep over having missed it. Now it is being suggested to us, through various strewn-about leaflets of foreign manufacture, that we close ranks and start groups with the sole purpose of universal destruction, under the pretext that however you try to cure the world, you're not going to cure it, but by radically lopping off a hundred million heads, thereby relieving ourselves, we can more assuredly jump over the little ditch. A beautiful thought, no doubt, but one at least as incompatible with reality as 'Shigalyovism,' to which you adverted just now with such disdain."
"Well, I really didn't come here for discussions," Verkhovensky let slip this significant little phrase and, as if not noticing the slip at all, moved the candle towards him to have more light.
"It's a pity, sir, a great pity, that you didn't come here for discussions, and a great pity that you're so occupied now with your toilette."
"And what is my toilette to you?"
"A hundred million heads are as hard to realize as remaking the world by propaganda. Maybe even harder, especially if it's in Russia," Liputin ventured again.
"It's Russia they've now set their hopes on," an officer said.
"We've heard about those hopes, too," the lame man picked up. "It is known to us that the mysterious index is pointed at our beautiful fatherland as the country most capable of fulfilling the great task. Only here's the thing, sir: in the event of a gradual resolution of the task by propaganda, I at least gain something personally, well, even if it's just pleasant chitchat, and I might indeed get a promotion from the authorities for services to the social cause. But in the other event—that is, this quick resolution by means of a hundred million heads—what in fact will be my reward? Once you start propagandizing, you may well have your tongue cut off."
"Yours will certainly be cut off," said Verkhovensky.
"You see, sir. And since under the most favorable circumstances it would take fifty, or, say, thirty years to finish such a slaughter, because they're not sheep, they may not just let themselves be slaughtered— isn't it better to pack bag and baggage and move somewhere beyond the peaceful seas to some peaceful islands and there serenely close your eyes? Believe me, sir," he tapped the table significantly with his finger, "you'll only provoke emigration with such propaganda, and nothing else, sir!"
He finished, visibly triumphant. Here was one of the powerful intellects of the province. Liputin was smiling insidiously, Virginsky was listening somewhat glumly, the rest followed the argument with great attention, especially the ladies and officers. Everyone realized that the agent of a hundred million heads had been driven into a corner, and waited to see what would come of it.
"That was well put, by the way," Verkhovensky mumbled with still greater indifference than before, and even as if with boredom. "Emigration is a good idea. But if, in spite of all the obvious disadvantages you anticipate, there are still more and more soldiers coming to the common cause every day, then it can do without you. Here, my dear, a new religion is on its way to replace the old one, that's why so many fighters are coming, and this is a big thing. Go ahead and emigrate! And, you know, I'd advise you to go to Dresden, not to any peaceful islands. First, it's a city that has never seen an epidemic, and you, being a developed man, are surely afraid of death; second, it's close to the Russian border, so that one can the sooner receive one's income from the beloved fatherland; third, it contains so-called treasures of art, and you are an aesthetic man, a former teacher of literature, I believe; well, and, finally, it contains its own pocket Switzerland—this now is for poetic inspiration, because you surely must scribble verses. In short, a treasure in a snuffbox!"