"And possibly that would be the best solution of the problem," said Shigalov, turning hotly to Lyamshin.
"You certainly don't know what a profound thing you've succeeded in saying, my merry friend.
But as it's hardly possible to carry out your idea, we must confine ourselves to an earthly paradise, since that's what they call it."
"This is pretty thorough rot," broke, as though involuntarily, from Verhovensky.
Without even raising his eyes, however, he went on cutting his nails with perfect nonchalance.
"Why is it rot?" The lame man took it up instantly, as though he had been lying in wait for his first words to catch at them.
"Why is it rot?
Mr. Shigalov is somewhat fanatical in his love for humanity, but remember that Fourier, still more Cabet and even Proudhon himself, advocated a number of the most despotic and even fantastic measures.
Mr. Shigalov is perhaps far more sober in his suggestions than they are.
I assure you that when one reads his book it's almost impossible not to agree with some things.
He is perhaps less far from realism than anyone and his earthly paradise is almost the real one—if it ever existed—for the loss of which man is always sighing."
"I knew I was in for something," Verhovensky muttered again.
"Allow me," said the lame man, getting more and more excited. "Conversations and arguments about the future organisation of society are almost an actual necessity for all thinking people nowadays.
Herzen was occupied with nothing else all his life.
Byelinsky, as I know on very good authority, used to spend whole evenings with his friends debating and settling beforehand even the minutest, so to speak, domestic, details of the social organisation of the future."
"Some people go crazy over it," the major observed suddenly.
"We are more likely to arrive at something by talking, anyway, than by sitting silent and posing as dictators," Liputin hissed, as though at last venturing to begin the attack.
"I didn't mean Shigalov when I said it was rot," Verhovensky mumbled.
"You see, gentlemen,"—he raised his eyes a trifle—"to my mind all these books, Fourier, Cabet, all this talk about the right to work, and Shigalov's theories—are all like novels of which one can write a hundred thousand—an ?sthetic entertainment.
I can understand that in this little town you are bored, so you rush to ink and paper."
"Excuse me," said the lame man, wriggling on his chair, "though we are provincials and of course objects of commiseration on that ground, yet we know that so far nothing has happened in the world new enough to be worth our weeping at having missed it.
It is suggested to us in various pamphlets made abroad and secretly distributed that we should unite and form groups with the sole object of bringing about universal destruction. It's urged that, however much you tinker with the world, you can't make a good job of it, but that by cutting off a hundred million heads and so lightening one's burden, one can jump over the ditch more safely.
A fine idea, no doubt, but quite as impracticable as Shigalov's theories, which you referred to just now so contemptuously."
"Well, but I haven't come here for discussion." Verhovensky let drop this significant phrase, and, as though quite unaware of his blunder, drew the candle nearer to him that he might see better.
"It's a pity, a great pity, that you haven't come for discussion, and it's a great pity that you are so taken up just now with your toilet."
"What's my toilet to you?"
"To remove a hundred million heads is as difficult as to transform the world by propaganda.
Possibly more difficult, especially in Russia," Liputin ventured again.
"It's Russia they rest their hopes on now," said an officer.
"We've heard they are resting their hopes on it," interposed the lame man.
"We know that a mysterious finger is pointing to our delightful country as the land most fitted to accomplish the great task.
But there's this: by the gradual solution of the problem by propaganda I shall gain something, anyway—I shall have some pleasant talk, at least, and shall even get some recognition from government for my services to the cause of society.
But in the second way, by the rapid method of cutting off a hundred million heads, what benefit shall I get personally?
If you began advocating that, your tongue might be cut out."
"Yours certainly would be," observed Verhovensky.
"You see.
And as under the most favourable circumstances you would not get through such a massacre in less than fifty or at the best thirty years—for they are not sheep, you know, and perhaps they would not let themselves be slaughtered—wouldn't it be better to pack one's bundle and migrate to some quiet island beyond calm seas and there close one's eyes tranquilly?
Believe me"—he tapped the table significantly with his finger—"you will only promote emigration by such propaganda and nothing else!"
He finished evidently triumphant.
He was one of the intellects of the province.
Liputin smiled slyly, Virginsky listened rather dejectedly, the others followed the discussion with great attention, especially the ladies and officers.
They all realised that the advocate of the hundred million heads theory had been driven into a corner, and waited to see what would come of it.
"That was a good saying of yours, though," Verhovensky mumbled more carelessly than ever, in fact with an air of positive boredom.
"Emigration is a good idea.
But all the same, if in spite of all the obvious disadvantages you foresee, more and more come forward every day ready to fight for the common cause, it will be able to do without you.
It's a new religion, my good friend, coming to take the place of the old one. That's why so many fighters come forward, and it's a big movement.
You'd better emigrate!
And, you know, I should advise Dresden, not 'the calm islands.'
To begin with, it's a town that has never been visited by an epidemic, and as you are a man of culture, no doubt you are afraid of death. Another thing, it's near the Russian frontier, so you can more easily receive your income from your beloved Fatherland. Thirdly, it contains what are called treasures of art, and you are a man of ?sthetic tastes, formerly a teacher of literature, I believe. And, finally, it has a miniature Switzerland of its own—to provide you with poetic inspiration, for no doubt you write verse.
In fact it's a treasure in a nutshell!"