A Hero of Our Time [45]
"So far as I am concerned," said the doctor, "I am convinced of one thing only" . . .
"And that is --?" I asked, desirous of learning the opinion of a man who had been silent till then.
"Of the fact," he answered, "that sooner or later, one fine morning, I shall die."
"I am better off than you," I said. "In addi- tion to that, I have a further conviction, namely, that, one very nasty evening, I had the misfor- tune to be born."
All the others considered that we were talking nonsense, but indeed not one of them said any- thing more sensible. From that moment we singled each other out amongst the crowd. We used frequently to meet and discuss abstract subjects in a very serious manner, until each observed that the other was throwing dust in his eyes. Then, looking significantly at each other -- as, according to Cicero, the Roman augurs used to do -- we would burst out laughing heartily and, having had our laugh, we would separate, well content with our evening.
I was lying on a couch, my eyes fixed upon the ceiling and my hands clasped behind my head, when Werner entered my room. He sat down in an easy chair, placed his cane in a corner, yawned, and announced that it was getting hot out of doors. I replied that the flies were bothering me -- and we both fell silent.
"Observe, my dear doctor," I said, "that, but for fools, the world would be a very dull place. Look! Here are you and I, both sensible men! We know beforehand that it is possible to dispute ad infinitum about everything -- and so we do not dispute. Each of us knows almost all the other's secret thoughts: to us a single word is a whole history; we see the grain of every one of our feelings through a threefold husk. What is sad, we laugh at; what is laughable, we grieve at; but, to tell the truth, we are fairly indifferent, generally speaking, to everything except our- selves. Consequently, there can be no inter- change of feelings and thoughts between us; each of us knows all he cares to know about the other, and that knowledge is all he wants. One expedient remains -- to tell the news. So tell me some news."
Fatigued by this lengthy speech, I closed my eyes and yawned. The doctor answered after thinking awhile:
"There is an idea, all the same, in that non- sense of yours."
"Two," I replied.
"Tell me one, and I will tell you the other."
"Very well, begin!" I said, continuing to examine the ceiling and smiling inwardly.
"You are anxious for information about some of the new-comers here, and I can guess who it is, because they, for their part, have already been inquiring about you."
"Doctor! Decidedly it is impossible for us to hold a conversation! We read into each other's soul."
"Now the other idea?" . . .
"Here it is: I wanted to make you relate something, for the following reasons: firstly, listening is less fatiguing than talking; secondly, the listener cannot commit himself; thirdly, he can learn another's secret; fourthly, sensible people, such as you, prefer listeners to speakers. Now to business; what did Princess Ligovski tell you about me?"
"You are quite sure that it was Princess Ligovski . . . and not Princess Mary?" . . .
"Quite sure."
"Why?"
"Because Princess Mary inquired about Grush- nitski."
"You are gifted with a fine imagination! Princess Mary said that she was convinced that the young man in the soldier's cloak had been reduced to the ranks on account of a duel" . . .
"I hope you left her cherishing that pleasant delusion" . . .
"Of course" . . .
"A plot!" I exclaimed in rapture. "We will make it our business to see to the denouement of this little comedy. It is obvious that fate is taking care that I shall not be bored!"
"I have a presentiment," said the doctor, "that poor Grushnitski will be your victim."
"Proceed, doctor."
"Princess Ligovski said that your face was familiar to her. I observed that she had probably met you in Petersburg -- somewhere in society. . . I told her your name. She knew it well. It appears that your history created a great