'There's no difference whatsoever between a warm, comfortable study and this ward,' Ragin said. 'Man finds peace and contentment within him, not in the world outside.'
'Meaning what?'
'The man in the street seeks good or evil in externals—in carriages and studies, that is—but a thinking individual looks to the world within him.'
'Go and -preach that philosophy in Greece where it's warm and smells oforanges. It doesn't fit our climate. Now, who was I discussing Diogenes with—not you, was it?'
'Yes it was—yesterday.'
'Diogenes needed no study or warm building. It was warm there anyway, and he could just lie around in his barrel munching oranges and olives. Now, if he had to live in Russia he'd be begging to be allowed indoors in May, let alone December. He'd be doubled up with cold, you mark my words.'
'No. One can ignore cold, just like any other pain. "Pain is the vivid impression of feeling pain," Marcus Aurelius said. "Will yourself to change that impression, jettison it, stop complaining—and the pain will vanish." That's quite right. Your sage, or your ordinary thinking, thoughtful individual . . . it's this very contempt for suffering which distinguishes them. They are always content and nothing ever surprises them.'
'I must be an idiot then, since I suffer, since I'm discontented and since I am surprised at human depravity.'
'Don't say that. If you meditate more you will appreciate the insignificance of all those exte^^s that so excite us. One must seek the meaning of life, for therein lies true happiness.'
'Meaning of life. . . .' Gromov frowned. 'Exte^ls, internals. . . . This makes no sense to me, sorry.
'I know only one thing,' he said, standing up and looking angrily at the doctor. 'I know God made me of warm blood and nerves, that I do know, sir. Now, organic tissue with any spark of vitality must react to every stimulus. So react I do! To pain I respond with shouts and t^^, me^mess makes me indignant, revolting behaviour sickens me. This is what life means, actuary, or so I The lower the organism the
less sensitive it is and the weaker its response to stimuli, whereas the higher it is the more receptively and forcefully does it react to reality. Why, it's so obvious! The man's a doctor and doesn't even know a little thing like that! Contempt for suffering, per^^ent contentment, never being surprised ... it just means s^tang to that condition.'
Gromov pointed to the obese, bloated pedant.
'Or else it means so hardening oneself through suffering that one loses all sensitivity—gives up living, in other words.
'I'm no sage or philosopher, sorry,' Gromov went on irritably. 'These things are beyond me and I'm in no state to argue.'
'Far from it, you argue very weU.'
'The Stoics whom you caricature ... they were remarkable men, but their doctrine ground to a halt two thousand years ago, it hasn't budged an inch since. Nor wiU it, impractical and moribund as it is. It has only succeeded with the minority which spends its time studying and sampling various creeds. The maues haven't grasped it, A doctrine of indifference to wealth and comfort, of contempt for suffering and death . . . it's quite beyond the great majority of people since both wealth and comfort have passed them by. If such people despised suffering they would be despising life itself. Hunger, cold, injury, loss, fear of death a la Hamlet . •. why, these feelings are the very essence of being a man! They're the whole of life, these sensations are. Life may irk you, you may loathe it, but despise it you mustn't. And so, I repeat, Stoicism can never have a future, whereas sensitivity to pain, the capacity for response to stimuli . . . these things have been moving forward from the beginning of time to our o^ day, as you can see for yourself.'
Gromov suddenly lost track ofhis thoughts, paused and rubbed his forehead with annoyance.
'I had something vital to say, but I've lost the thread,' he remarked. 'Now, where was I? Oh, yes. Now, this is my point. A Stoic once sold himself into slavery to ransom a neighbour. So even a Stoic reacted to a stimulus, you see, since so generous a deed as self-denial for one's neighbour's sake presupposes feelings of outraged sympathy. In this prison I have forgotten eve^^^g I ever studied, or else I should remember a few other things too. Well, take Christ. He reacted to the external world with tears, smiles, grief, wrath—with anguish, even.
He didn't greet suffering with a smile or despise death, but prayed in the Garden of Gethsemane that this cup should pass Him by.'
Gromov laughed and sat do^.
'Let's admit that man's peace and contentment arc within him, not outside him,' said he. 'And let's admit that one should despise suffering and never feel surprise. Dut you, now—what grounds have you for preaching this doctrine? Arc you a sage? A philosopher?'
'No, I'm no philosopher, but everyone should prcach this doctrine. because it's rational.'
'Now, why do you think yourself competent in the search for meanings, contempt for suffering and the rest of it? That's what I'd like to know. Have you ever suffered? Have you any idea what suffering is? Tell me, were you beaten as a child?'
'No, my parents abhorred corporal punishment.'
'Well, my father beat me cruelly. My father was a cantankerous government official with a long nose, a yellow neck and piles. But let's go on about you. No one ever laid a finger on you in your life, no one ever frightened you, no one hit you. You're as strong as an ox. You grew up under your father's wing, you studied at his expense, you picked up a soft job straight away. For twenty years and more you've had rent-free accommodation with heating, lighting and service, besides which you have been entitled to work how you liked, as much as you liked: even to do nothing at all. Being lazy and spineless by nature, you tried to arrange things so that nothing bothered you or budged you from the spot. You delegated your job to your assistant and those other swine while you sat in the warmth and quiet, saving money, reading a book or two, indulging yourself with speculations in the sphere of higher nonsense, andalso'—Gromov looked at the doctor's red nose—'by hitting the bottle. You've never seen life, in other words, you know nothing about it. You're conversant with reality only in theory. And why is it you despise suffering, why don't you ever feel surprise? There's a very simple reason. The vanity ofvanities, externals, inte^ls, despising life, suffering and death, the meaning of existence, true happiness ... it's the philosophy best suited to a typical lackadaisical Russian. Say you see a peasant beating his wife. Why meddle? Let him beat away, they're both going to die anyway sooner or later. Besides, that peasant is degrading himself with his blows, not the person he's hitting. Getting drunk is stupid, it's not respectable, but you die ifyou drink and you die ifyou don't. A peasant woman comes along with toothache. So what? Pain is just the impression of feeling pain, besides which no one can get through life without sickncss and we are all going to die. So let that woman clear out and leave me to my meditations and vodka. A young man wants advice on what to do, how to live. Anyone else might reflect before answering, but you have your ready-made reply: seek the meaning oflife or true bliss. But just what is this fantastic "true bliss"? That, of course, we're never told. We are kept behind these bars, we're left to rot, we're given hell, but that is all splendidly rational because there's no difference between this ward and a warm, comfortable study. Oh, it's a convenient philosophy, this is! You don't have to do anything, your conscience is clear and you think yourself a sage.
'No, sir, there is no philosophy, no thought, no breadth of vision in that, there's only laziness, mumbo-jumbo and a sort ofdrugged trance.
'Yes, indeed,' said Gromov, angry again. 'You may despise suffering, but you catch your fmger in the door and I bet you'll scream your head 0ff!'