"The devil! For God's sake, stop reading, your Excellency.
Couldn't you find something else to read about?" cried the other
Official in sheer desperation. He snatched the paper from his
colleague's hands, and started to read something else.
"Our correspondent in Tula informs us that yesterday a sturgeon
was found in the Upa (an event which even the oldest inhabitants
cannot recall, and all the more remarkable since they recognised
the former police captain in this sturgeon). This was made the
occasion for giving a banquet in the club. The prime cause of the
banquet was served in a large wooden platter garnished with
vinegar pickles. A bunch of parsley stuck out of its mouth. Doctor
P—— who acted as toast-master saw to it that everybody present
got a piece of the sturgeon. The sauces to go with it were unusually
varied and delicate—"
"Permit me, your Excellency, it seems to me you are not so careful
either in the selection of reading matter," interrupted the first
Official, who secured the Gazette again and started to read:
"One of the oldest inhabitants of Viatka has discovered a new and
highly original recipe for fish soup; A live codfish ( lota vulgaris) is taken and beaten with a rod until its liver swells up with
anger…"
The Officials' heads drooped. Whatever their eyes fell upon had
something to do with eating. Even their own thoughts were fatal.
No matter how much they tried to keep their minds off beefsteak
and the like, it was all in vain; their fancy returned invariably, with
irresistible force, back to that for which they were so painfully
yearning.
Suddenly an inspiration came to the Official who had once taught
handwriting.
"I have it!" he cried delightedly. "What do you say to this, your Excellency? What do you say to our finding a muzhik?"
"A muzhik, your Excellency? What sort of a muzhik?"
"Why a plain ordinary muzhik. A muzhik like all other muzhiks.
He would get the breakfast rolls for us right away, and he could
also catch partridges and fish for us."
"Hm, a muzhik. But where are we to fetch one from, if there is no
muzhik here?"
"Why shouldn't there be a muzhik here? There are muzhiks
everywhere. All one has to do is hunt for them. There certainly
must be a muzhik hiding here somewhere so as to get out of
working."
This thought so cheered the Officials that they instantly jumped up
to go in search of a muzhik.
For a long while they wandered about on the island without the
desired result, until finally a concentrated smell of black bread and
old sheep skin assailed their nostrils and guided them in the right
direction. There under a tree was a colossal muzhik lying fast
asleep with his hands under his head. It was clear that to escape his
duty to work he had impudently withdrawn to this island. The
indignation of the Officials knew no bounds.
"What, lying asleep here you lazy-bones you!" they raged at him,
"It is nothing to you that there are two Officials here who are fairly perishing of hunger. Up, forward, march, work."
The Muzhik rose and looked at the two severe gentlemen standing
in front of him. His first thought was to make his escape, but the
Officials held him fast.
He had to submit to his fate. He had to work.
First he climbed up on a tree and plucked several dozen of the
finest apples for the Officials. He kept a rotten one for himself.
Then he turned up the earth and dug out some potatoes. Next he
started a fire with two bits of wood that he rubbed against each
other. Out of his own hair he made a snare and caught partridges.
Over the fire, by this time burning brightly, he cooked so many
kinds of food that the question arose in the Officials' minds
whether they shouldn't give some to this idler.
Beholding the efforts of the Muzhik, they rejoiced in their hearts.
They had already forgotten how the day before they had nearly
been perishing of hunger, and all they thought of now was: "What
a good thing it is to be an Official. Nothing bad can ever happen to
an Official."
"Are you satisfied, gentlemen?" the lazy Muzhik asked.
"Yes, we appreciate your industry," replied the Officials.
"Then you will permit me to rest a little?"
"Go take a little rest, but first make a good strong cord."
The Muzhik gathered wild hemp stalks, laid them in water, beat
them and broke them, and toward evening a good stout cord was
ready. The Officials took the cord and bound the Muzhik to a tree,
so that he should not run away. Then they laid themselves to sleep.
Thus day after day passed, and the Muzhik became so skilful that
he could actually cook soup for the Officials in his bare hands. The
Officials had become round and well-fed and happy. It rejoiced
them that here they needn't spend any money and that in the
meanwhile their pensions were accumulating in St. Petersburg.
"What is your opinion, your Excellency," one said to the other after breakfast one day, "is the Story of the Tower of Babel true?
Don't you think it is simply an allegory?"
"By no means, your Excellency, I think it was something that
really happened. What other explanation is there for the existence
of so many different languages on earth?"
"Then the Flood must really have taken place, too?"
"Certainly, else; how would you explain the existence of
Antediluvian animals? Besides, the Moscow Gazette says——"
They made search for the old number of the Moscow Gazette,
seated themselves in the shade, and read the whole sheet from
beginning to end. They read of festivities in Moscow, Tula, Penza
and Riazan, and strangely enough felt no discomfort at the
description of the delicacies served.
There is no saying how long this life might have lasted. Finally,
however, it began to bore the Officials. They often thought of their
cooks in St. Petersburg, and even shed a few tears in secret.
"I wonder how it looks in Podyacheskaya Street now, your
Excellency," one of them said to the other.
"Oh, don't remind me of it, your Excellency. I am pining away
with homesickness."
"It is very nice here. There is really no fault to be found with this place, but the lamb longs for its mother sheep. And it is a pity, too,
for the beautiful uniforms."
"Yes, indeed, a uniform of the fourth class is no joke. The gold
embroidery alone is enough to make one dizzy."
Now they began to importune the Muzhik to find some way of
getting them back to Podyacheskaya Street, and strange to say, the
Muzhik even knew where Podyacheskaya Street was. He had once
drunk beer and mead there, and as the saying goes, everything had
run down his beard, alas, but nothing into his mouth. The Officials
rejoiced and said: "We are Officials from Podyacheskaya Street."
"And I am one of those men—do you remember?—who sit on a
scaffolding hung by ropes from the roofs and paint the outside
walls. I am one of those who crawl about on the roofs like flies.
That is what I am," replied the Muzhik.
The Muzhik now pondered long and heavily on how to give great
pleasure to his Officials, who had been so gracious to him, the
lazy-bones, and had not scorned his work. And he actually
succeeded in constructing a ship. It was not really a ship, but still it was a vessel, that would carry them across the ocean close to
Podyacheskaya Street.
"Now, take care, you dog, that you don't drown us," said
the Officials, when they saw the raft rising and falling on the
waves.
"Don't be afraid. We muzhiks are used to this," said the Muzhik, making all the preparations for the journey. He gathered swan's-down and made a couch for his two Officials, then he crossed
himself and rowed off from shore.
How frightened the Officials were on the way, how seasick they
were during the storms, how they scolded the coarse Muzhik for
his idleness, can neither be told nor described. The Muzhik,
however, just kept rowing on and fed his Officials on herring. At
last, they caught sight of dear old Mother Neva. Soon they were in
the glorious Catherine Canal, and then, oh joy! they struck the
grand Podyacheskaya Street. When the cooks saw their Officials so
well-fed, round and so happy, they rejoiced immensely. The
Officials drank coffee and rolls, then put on their uniforms and
drove to the Pension Bureau. How much money they collected
there is another thing that can neither be told nor described. Nor
was the Muzhik forgotten. The Officials sent a glass of whiskey
out to him and five kopeks. Now, Muzhik, rejoice.
THE SHADES, A PHANTASY
BY VLADIMIR G. KORLENKO
I
A month and two days had elapsed since the judges, amid the loud
acclaim of the Athenian people, had pronounced the death sentence
against the philosopher Socrates because he had sought to destroy
faith in the gods. What the gadfly is to the horse Socrates was to
Athens. The gadfly stings the horse in order to prevent it from
dozing off and to keep it moving briskly on its course. The
philosopher said to the people of Athens:
"I am your gadfly. My sting pricks your conscience and arouses
you when you are caught napping. Sleep not, sleep not, people of
Athens; awake and seek the truth!"
The people arose in their exasperation and cruelly demanded to be
rid of their gadfly.
"Perchance both of his accusers, Meletus and Anytus, are wrong,"
said the citizens, on leaving the court after sentence had been
pronounced.
"But after all whither do his doctrines tend? What would he do? He
has wrought confusion, he overthrows, beliefs that have existed
since the beginning, he speaks of new virtues which must be
recognised and sought for, he speaks of a Divinity hitherto
unknown to us. The blasphemer, he deems himself wiser than the
gods! No, 'twere better we remain true to the old gods whom we
know. They may not always be just, sometimes they may flare up
in unjust wrath, and they may also be seized with a wanton lust for
the wives of mortals; but did not our ancestors live with them in
the peace of their souls, did not our forefathers accomplish their
heroic deeds with the help of these very gods? And now the faces
of the Olympians have paled and the old virtue is out of joint.
What does it all lead to? Should not an end be put to this impious
wisdom once for all?"
Thus the citizens of Athens spoke to one another as they left the
place, and the blue twilight was falling. They had determined to
kill the restless gadfly in the hope that the countenances of the
gods would shine again. And yet—before their souls arose the mild
figure of the singular philosopher. There were some citizens who
recalled how courageously he had shared their troubles and
dangers at Potidæa; how he alone had prevented them from
committing the sin of unjustly executing the generals after the
victory over the Arginusæe; how he alone had dared to raise his
voice against the tyrants who had had fifteen hundred people put to
death, speaking to the people on the market-place concerning
shepherds and their sheep.
"Is not he a good shepherd," he asked, "who guards his flock and watches over its increase? Or is it the work of the good shepherd to
reduce the number of his sheep and disperse them, and of the good
ruler to do the same with his people? Men of Athens, let us
investigate this question!"
And at this question of the solitary, undefended philosopher, the
faces of the tyrants paled, while the eyes of the youths kindled with
the fire of just wrath and indignation.
Thus, when on dispersing after the sentence the Athenians recalled
all these things of Socrates, their hearts were oppressed with heavy
doubt.
"Have we not done a cruel wrong to the son of Sophroniscus?"
But then the good Athenians looked upon the harbour and the sea,
and in the red glow of the dying day they saw the purple sails of
the sharp-keeled ship, sent to the Delian festival, shimmering in the
distance on the blue Pontus. The ship would not return until the
expiration of a month, and the Athenians recollected that during
this time no blood might be shed in Athens, whether the blood of
the innocent or the guilty. A month, moreover, has many days and
still more hours. Supposing the son of Sophroniscus had been
unjustly condemned, who would hinder his escaping from the
prison, especially since he had numerous friends to help him? Was
it so difficult for the rich Plato, for Æschines and others to bribe
the guards? Then the restless gadfly would flee from Athens to the
barbarians in Thessaly, or to the Peloponnesus, or, still farther, to
Egypt; Athens would no longer hear his blasphemous speeches; his
death would not weigh upon the conscience of the worthy citizens,
and so everything would end for the best of all.
Thus said many to themselves that evening, while aloud they
praised the wisdom of the demos and the heliasts. In secret,
however, they cherished the hope that the restless philosopher
would leave Athens, fly from the hemlock to the barbarians, and so
free the Athenians of his troublesome presence and of the pangs of
consciences that smote them for inflicting death upon an innocent
man.
Two and thirty times since that evening had the sun risen from the
ocean and dipped down into it again. The ship had returned from
Delos and lay in the harbour with sadly drooping sails, as if
ashamed of its native city. The moon did not shine in the heavens,
the sea heaved under a heavy fog, and, on the, hills lights peered
through the obscurity like the eyes of men gripped by a sense of
guilt.
The stubborn Socrates did, not spare the conscience of the
good Athenians.
"We part! You go home and I go to death," he said, to the judges after the sentence had been pronounced. "I know not, my friends,
which of us chooses the better lot!"
As the time had approached for the return of the ship, many of the
citizens had begun to feel uneasy. Must that obstinate fellow really
die? And they began to appeal to the consciences of Æschines,
Phædo, and other pupils of Socrates, trying to urge them on to
further efforts for their master.
"Will you permit your teacher to die?" they asked reproachfully in biting tones. "Or do you grudge the few coins it would take to
bribe the guard?"
In vain Crito besought Socrates to take to flight, and complained
that the public, was upbraiding his disciples with lack of friendship
and with avarice. The self-willed philosopher refused to gratify his
pupils or the good people of Athens.
"Let us investigate." he said. "If it turns out that I must flee, I will flee; but if I must die, I will die. Let us remember what we once
said—the wise man need not fear death, he need fear nothing but
falsehood. Is it right to abide by the laws we ourselves have made
so long as they are agreeable to us, and refuse to obey those which
are disagreeable? If my memory does not deceive me I believe we
once spoke of these things, did we not?"
"Yes, we did," answered his pupil.
"And I think all were agreed as to the answer?"
"Yes."
"But perhaps what is true for others is not true for us?"
"No, truth is alike for all, including ourselves."
"But perhaps when we must die and not some one else, truth
becomes untruth?"
"No, Socrates, truth remains the truth under all circumstances."
After his pupil had thus agreed to each premise of Socrates in turn,
he smiled and drew his conclusion.
"If that is so, my friend, mustn't I die? Or has my head already
become so weak that I am no longer in a condition to draw a
logical conclusion? Then correct me, my friend and show my
erring brain the right way."
His pupil covered, his face with his mantle and turned aside.
"Yes," he said, "now I see you must die."
And on that evening when the sea tossed hither, and thither and
roared dully under the load of fog, and the whimsical wind in
mournful astonishment gently stirred the sails of the ships; when
the citizens meeting on the streets asked, one another: "Is, he
dead?" and their voices timidly betrayed the hope that he was not
dead; when the first breath of awakened conscience, touched the
hearts of the Athenians like the first messenger of the storm; and
when, it seemed the very faces of the gods were darkened with
shame—on that evening at the sinking of the sun the self-willed
man drank the cup of death!
The wind increased in violence and shrouded the city more closely
in the veil of mist, angrily tugging at the sails of the vessels
delayed in the harbour. And the Erinyes sang their gloomy songs to
the hearts of the citizens and whipped up in their breasts that
tempest which was later, to overwhelm the denouncers of Socrates.
But in that hour the first stirrings of regret were still uncertain and
confused. The citizens found more fault with Socrates than ever
because he had not given them the satisfaction of fleeing to
Thessaly; they were annoyed with his pupils because in the last
days they had walked about in sombre mourning attire, a living
reproach to the Athenians; they were vexed with the judges
because they had not had the sense and the courage to resist the
blind rage of the excited people; they bore even the gods
resentment.
"To you, ye gods, have we brought this sacrifice," spoke
many. "Rejoice, ye unsatiable!"
"I know not which of us chooses the better lot!"
Those words of Socrates came back to their memory, those his last
words to the judges and to the people gathered in the court. Now
he lay in the prison quiet and motionless under his cloak, while
over the city hovered mourning, horror, and shame.
Again he became the tormentor of the city, he who was himself no
longer accessible to torment. The gadfly had been killed, but it
stung the people more sharply than ever—sleep not, sleep not this
night, O men of Athens! Sleep not! You have committed an
injustice, a cruel injustice, which can never be erased!
II
During those sad days Xenophon, the general, a pupil of Socrates,
was marching with his Ten Thousand in a distant land, amid
dangers, seeking a way of return to his beloved fatherland.
Æschines, Crito, Critobulus, Phædo, and Apollodorus were now
occupied with the preparations for the modest funeral.
Plato was burning his lamp and bending over a parchment; the best
disciple of the philosopher was busy inscribing the deeds, words,
and teachings that marked the end of the sage's life. A thought is
never lost, and the truth discovered by a great intellect illumines
the way for future generations like a torch in the dark.
There was one other disciple of Socrates. Not long before, the
impetuous Ctesippus had been one of the most frivolous and
pleasure-seeking of the Athenian youths. He had set up beauty as
his sole god, and had bowed before Clinias as its highest exemplar.
But since he had become acquainted with Socrates, all desire for
pleasure and all light-mindedness had gone from him. He looked
on indifferently while others took his place with Clinias. The grace
of thought and the harmony of spirit that he found in Socrates
seemed a hundred times more attractive than the graceful form and
the harmonious features of Clinias. With all the intensity of his
stormy temperament he hung on the man who had disturbed the
serenity of his virginal soul, which for the first time opened to
doubts as the bud of a young oak opens to the fresh winds of
spring.
Now that the master was dead, he could find peace neither at his
own hearth nor in the oppressive stillness of the streets nor among
his friends and fellow-disciples. The gods of hearth and home and
the gods of the people inspired him with repugnance.
"I know not," he said, "whether ye are the best of all the gods to whom numerous generations have burned incense and brought
offerings; all I know is that for your sake the blind mob
extinguished the clear torch of truth, and for your sake sacrificed
the greatest and best of mortals!"
It almost seemed to Ctesippus as though the streets and market-
places still echoed with the shrieking of that unjust sentence. And
he remembered how it was here that the people clamoured for the
execution of the generals who had led them to victory against the
Argunisæ, and how Socrates alone had opposed the savage
sentence of the judges and the blind rage of the mob. But when
Socrates himself needed a champion, no one had been found to
defend him with equal strength. Ctesippus blamed himself and his
friends, and for that reason he wanted to avoid everybody—even
himself, if possible.
That evening he went to the sea. But his grief grew only the more
violent. It seemed to him that the mourning daughters of Nereus
were tossing hither and thither on the shore bewailing the death of
the best of the Athenians and the folly of the frenzied city. The
waves broke on the rocky coast with a growl of lament. Their
booming sounded like a funeral dirge.
He turned away, left, the shore, and went on further without
looking before him. He forgot time and space and his own ego,
filled only with the afflicting thought of Socrates!
"Yesterday he still was, yesterday his mild words still could be
heard. How is it possible that to-day he no longer is? O night, O
giant mountain shrouded in mist, O heaving sea moved by your
own life, O restless winds that carry the breath of an immeasurable
world on your wings, O starry vault flecked with flying clouds—
take me to you, disclose to me the mystery of this death, if it is
revealed to you! And if ye know not, then grant my ignorant soul
your own lofty indifference. Remove from me these torturing
questions. I no longer have strength to carry them in my bosom
without an answer, without even the hope of an answer. For who
shall answer them, now that the lips of Socrates are sealed in
eternal silence, and eternal darkness is laid upon his lids?"
Thus Ctesippus cried out to the sea and the mountains, and to the
dark night, which followed its invariable course, ceaselessly,
invisibly, over the slumbering world. Many hours passed before
Ctesippus glanced up and saw whither his steps had unconsciously
led him. A dark horror seized his soul as he looked about him.
III
It seemed as if the unknown gods of eternal night had heard his
impious prayer. Ctesippus looked about, without being able to
recognise the place where he was. The lights of the city had long
been extinguished by the darkness. The roaring of the sea had died
away in the distance; his anxious soul had even lost the
recollection of having heard it. No single sound—no mournful cry
of nocturnal bird, nor whirr of wings, nor rustling of trees, nor
murmur of a merry stream—broke the deep silence. Only the blind
will-o'-the-wisps flickered here and there over rocks, and sheet-
lightning, unaccompanied by any sound, flared up and died down
against crag-peaks. This brief illumination merely emphasised the
darkness; and the dead light disclosed the outlines of dead deserts
crossed by gorges like crawling serpents, and rising into rocky
heights in a wild chaos.
All the joyous gods that haunt green groves, purling brooks, and
mountain valleys seemed to have fled forever from these deserts.
Pan alone, the great and mysterious Pan, was hiding somewhere
nearby in the chaos of nature, and with mocking