"Ladies and gentlemen!
Only this morning there lay before me one of the illegal leaflets that have been distributed here lately, and I asked myself for the hundredth time,
'Wherein lies its secret?'"
The whole hall became instantly still, all looks were turned to him, some with positive alarm.
There was no denying, he knew how to secure their interest from the first word.
Heads were thrust out from behind the scenes; Liputin and Lyamshin listened greedily.
Yulia Mihailovna waved to me again.
"Stop him, whatever happens, stop him," she whispered in agitation.
I could only shrug my shoulders: how could one stop a man resolved to venture everything?
Alas, I understood what was in Stepan Trofimovitch's mind.
"Ha ha, the manifestoes!" was whispered in the audience; the whole hall was stirred.
"Ladies and gentlemen, I've solved the whole mystery.
The whole secret of their effect lies in their stupidity." (His eyes flashed.) "Yes. gentlemen, if this stupidity were intentional, pretended and calculated, oh, that would be a stroke of genius!
But we must do them justice: they don't pretend anything.
It's the barest, most simple-hearted, most shallow stupidity. C'est la betise dans son essence la plus pure, quelque chose comme un simple chimique.
If it were expressed ever so little more cleverly, every one would see at once the poverty of this shallow stupidity.
But as it is, every one is left wondering: no one can believe that it is such elementary stupidity.
'It's impossible that there's nothing more in it,' every one says to himself and tries to find the secret of it, sees a mystery in it, tries to read between the lines—the effect is attained!
Oh, never has stupidity been so solemnly rewarded, though it has so often deserved it.... For, en parenthese, stupidity is of as much service to humanity as the loftiest genius... ."
"Epigram of 1840" was commented, in a very modest voice, however, but it was followed by a general outbreak of noise and uproar.
"Ladies and gentlemen, hurrah!
I propose a toast to stupidity!" cried Stepan Trofimovitch, defying the audience in a perfect frenzy.
I ran up on the pretext of pouring out some water for him.
"Stepan Trofimovitch, leave off, Yulia Mihailovna entreats you to."
"No, you leave me alone, idle young man," he cried out at me at the top of his voice.
I ran away.
"Messieurs," he went on, "why this excitement, why the outcries of indignation I hear?
I have come forward with an olive branch.
I bring you the last word, for in this business I have the last word—and we shall be reconciled."
"Down with him!" shouted some.
"Hush, let him speak, let him have his say!" yelled another section.
The young teacher was particularly excited; having once brought himself to speak he seemed now unable to be silent.
"Messieurs, the last word in this business—is forgiveness.
I, an old man at the end of my life, I solemnly declare that the spirit of life breathes in us still, and there is still a living strength in the young generation.
The enthusiasm of the youth of today is as pure and bright as in our age.
All that has happened is a change of aim, the replacing of one beauty by another!
The whole difficulty lies in the question which is more beautiful, Shakespeare or boots, Raphael or petroleum?"
"It's treachery!" growled some.
"Compromising questions!"
"Agent provocateur!"
"But I maintain," Stepan Trofimovitch shrilled at the utmost pitch of excitement, "I maintain that Shakespeare and Raphael are more precious than the emancipation of the serfs, more precious than Nationalism, more precious than Socialism, more precious than the young generation, more precious than chemistry, more precious than almost all humanity because they are the fruit, the real fruit of all humanity and perhaps the highest fruit that can be.
A form of beauty already attained, but for the attaining of which I would not perhaps consent to live.... Oh, heavens!" he cried, clasping his hands, "ten years ago I said the same thing from the platform in Petersburg, exactly the same thing, in the same words, and in just the same way they did not understand it, they laughed and hissed as now; shallow people, what is lacking in you that you cannot understand?
But let me tell you, let me tell you, without the English, life is still possible for humanity, without Germany, life is possible, without the Russians it is only too possible, without science, without bread, life is possible—only without beauty it is impossible, for there will be nothing left in the world.
That's the secret at the bottom of everything, that's what history teaches!
Even science would not exist a moment without beauty—do you know that, you who laugh—it will sink into bondage, you won't invent a nail even!...
I won't yield an inch!" he shouted absurdly in confusion, and with all his might banged his fist on the table.
But all the while that he was shrieking senselessly and incoherently, the disorder in the hall increased.
Many people jumped up from their seats, some dashed forward, nearer to the platform.
It all happened much more quickly than I describe it, and there was no time to take steps, perhaps no wish to, either.
"It's all right for you, with everything found for you, you pampered creatures!" the same divinity student bellowed at the foot of the platform, grinning with relish at Stepan Trofimovitch, who noticed it and darted to the very edge of the platform.