What are our tasks?
On the one hand we are part and parcel of the Slavophiles—their spiritual heirs.
D'you know what Slavophilism is? It's simply the idealism of Russian landed proprietors.
On the other hand, all our money comes from our native bourgeoisie—we live on them. And with it all, we serve only the people... the people, forsooth!
It's a regular tragicomedy!
We've shed so many tears over the sufferings of the people that we have none left.
And when we were deprived of our tears, we had nothing left to live for. We kept telling ourselves our muzhiks would reach Constantinople, climb on to the dome of St. Sophia, and plant the Orthodox cross on its minaret. We dreamed of presenting our muzhiks with the terrestrial globe.
And we, the enthusiasts, the dreamers, the weepers, were met with pitchforks.... Whoever heard of such an outrage?
And the mortal terror we experienced! And then, my friend, sabotage begins.... The intellectuals tried to back out, to free their necks from the yoke.
'I won't! Just you try and get on without me!...' And that, just when Russia is on the brink of an infernal abyss.... It was a great, an irreparable mistake.
The gentry are too delicately bred, they can't understand revolution outside of books.... The revolution seemed so fascinating in books.... But now we see the soldiers deserting, killing their officers, tearing their Commander in Chief to pieces, burning estates, chasing after merchants' wives in railway carriages and making them cough up their diamond earrings.... No thank you! We're not going to play with such people, there was never anything about such people in the books.... And now what were we to do?
Sit and weep floods of tears in our homes? Unfortunately we've lost the habit of weeping....
Our dreams were shattered, we had nothing to live for. We could only hide our heads under our pillows in fear and disgust; some escaped abroad, the more energetic took up arms....
A scandal in a respectable family.... "And the people are 70 per cent illiterate, they don't know how to express their hatred, they can only welter in blood and horrors.
'We've been sold!' they say. 'Our lives have been gambled away!
Smash the mirrors, break up everything!'
Only one little group of intellectuals kept their heads—the Communists.
What do people do when a ship is sinking?
They throw everything superfluous overboard. The first thing the Communists did, was to throw overboard the old Russian idealism by the bushel. All this was the work of the old man, a real Russian, he is. And the people, with animal instinct felt: these are our chaps, not the gentry—they won't weep on our necks, they'll give the exploiters short shrift.... That's why I'm on their side, old boy, although I was brought up in the Kropotkin hothouse, under glass, amidst dreams.... And there are a lot like me.
Don't sneer, Telegin, you're just an embryo, a lighthearted primitive.... Some of us, you know, need deliberately to turn ourselves inside out, and, having thus made ourselves sensitive to every touch, concentrate on a simple manifestation of will power— hafred.... There's no fighting without that.... We are doing all that is humanly possible, setting a goal for the people, and leading them towards it. But we are a mere handful. And the enemy is everywhere. Have you heard about the Czechs?
The Commissar will be here soon, he'll tell you all about them.... D'you know what I'm afraid of?
I'm afraid the whole thing will turn out to be suicidal for us.
We may last out another month or two, even six months, but not more. We're doomed, brother. It'll all end in going back to the generals. And it's all been the fault of the Slavophiles, mark my words! When the liberation of the peasants began, we should have yelled:
'Help! We are perishing! We need intensive cultivation, frantic industrial development, universal education.... Let a new Pugachev, or a Stenka Razin come—so long as serfdom is really smashed to smithereens this time.' That's the slogan which should have- been thrown to the masses, that's the way the intellectuals should have been trained to think.... But we luxuriated in floods of joyful tears:
'My God, how boundless, how unique is Russia!
And now the muzhik is free as air, and the estates with the Turgenev maidens are intact, and the soul of our people is mysterious—not like that of the money-grubbing West....' And here am I trampling on dreams of any sort...."
Sapozhkov could not go on talking.
His face was burning.
But it was obvious he had not been able to get out what he really wanted to say.
Telegin, stunned by the torrent of words, sat open-mouthed, his mug of tea cooling on his knee.
Heavy steps were heard in the corridor, suggesting the approach of some ponderous body.
The door of the compartment opened and a broad-shouldered man of middle height, dark hair plastered on his great forehead, stood in the opening.
He seated himself silently under the lamp, and placed his enormous hands on his knees.
The sparse wrinkles on his weather-beaten face were like scars, his eyes could hardly be seen in the shadow of the deep sockets and overhanging brows.
This was Comrade Gimza, head of the regiment's Special Department.
"Got hold of spirits again?" he said softly and gravely.
"Take care, Comrade...."
"Spirits?
To hell with you!
Can't you see we're drinking tea?" said Sapozhkov.
Gimza boomed out, not moving in his seat:
"Lying only makes it worse.
Your compartment fairly reeks of spirits, you can smell it a mile off. The soldiers are getting restless in the freight trucks, they can smell it, too.... As if we haven't enough trouble as it is!
And I see you have raked up your rubbishy philosophy again, from which I draw the conclusion that you are drunk."
"Very well, I'm drunk ... shoot me then!"
"I could easily have you shot, you know that very well, and if I don't, it's for your fighting qualities...."
"Give us some tobacco," said Sapozhkov.
Gimza drew a cotton pouch from his pocket with stately movements.
Then, turning to Telegin, he went on speaking in slow tones, as if grinding corn:
"Every day the same thing: last week we shot three blackguards—I interrogated them myself... muck, they admitted everything.