Virgin Soil | Page 9

for an opportunity to burst out.
"I tell you that I don't want it, don't want, don't want it! I'll not allow it
and I'll not take it! I can get the money. I can get it at once. I am not in
need of anyone's help!
"My dear Alexai," Paklin remarked, "I see that you are not a democrat
in spite of your being a revolutionist!"
"Why not say straight out that I'm an aristocrat?"
"So you are up to a certain point."
Nejdanov gave a forced laugh.
"I see you are hinting at the fact of my being illegitimate. You can save
yourself the trouble, my dear boy. I am not likely to forget it."
Paklin threw up his arms in despair.
"Aliosha! What is the matter with you? How can you twist my words
so? I hardly know you today."
Nejdanov shrugged his shoulders.
"Basanov's arrest has upset you, but he was so careless--"
He did not hide his convictions," Mashurina put in gloomily. "It is not
for us to sit in judgment upon him!"
"Quite so; only he might have had a little more consideration for others,
who are likely to be compromised through him now."
"What makes you think so?" Ostrodumov bawled out in his turn.
"Basanov has plenty of character, he will not betray anyone. Besides,
not every one can be cautious you know, Mr. Paklin."
Paklin was offended and was about to say something when Nejdanov
interrupted him.
"I vote we leave politics for a time, ladies and gentlemen!" he
exclaimed.
A silence ensued.
"I ran across Skoropikin today," Paklin was the first to begin. "Our
great national critic, aesthetic, and enthusiast! What an insufferable
creature! He is forever boiling and frothing over like a bottle of sour
kvas. A waiter runs with it, his finger stuck in the bottle instead of a

cork, a fat raisin in the neck, and when it has done frothing and
foaming there is nothing left at the bottom but a few drops of some
nasty stuff, which far from quenching any one's thirst is enough to
make one ill. He's a most dangerous person for young people to come
in contact with."
Paklin's true and rather apt comparison raised no smile on his listeners'
faces, only Nejdanov remarked that if young people were fools enough
to interest themselves in aesthetics, they deserved no pity whatever,
even if Skoropikin did lead them astray.
"Of course," Paklin exclaimed with some warmth--the less sympathy
he met with, the more heated he became--" I admit that the question is
not a political one, but an important one, nevertheless. According to
Skoropikin, every ancient work of art is valueless because it is old. If
that were true, then art would be reduced to nothing more or less than
mere fashion. A preposterous idea, not worth entertaining. If art has no
firmer foundation than that, if it is not eternal, then it is utterly useless.
Take science, for instance. In mathematics do you look upon Euler,
Laplace, or Gauss as fools? Of course not. You accept their authority.
Then why question the authority of Raphael and Mozart? I must admit,
however, that the laws of art are far more difficult to define than the
laws of nature, but they exist just the same, and he who fails to see
them is blind, whether he shuts his eyes to them purposely or not."
Paklin ceased, but no one uttered a word. They all sat with tightly
closed mouths as if feeling unutterably sorry for him.
"All the same," Ostrodumov remarked, " I am not in the least sorry for
the young people who run after Skoropikin."
"You are hopeless," Paklin thought. "I had better be going."
He went up to Nejdanov, intending to ask his opinion about smuggling
in the magazine, the "Polar Star", from abroad (the "Bell" had already
ceased to exist), but the conversation took such a turn that it was
impossible to raise the question. Paklin had already taken up his hat,
when suddenly, without the slightest warning, a wonderfully pleasant,
manly baritone was heard from the passage. The very sound of this
voice suggested something gentle, fresh, and well-bred.
"Is Mr. Nejdanov at home?"
They all looked at one another in amazement.
"Is Mr. Nejdanov at home?" the baritone repeated.

"Yes, he is," Nejdanov replied at last.
The door opened gently and a man of about forty entered the room and
slowly removed his glossy hat from his handsome, closely cropped
head. He was tall and well-made, and dressed in a beautiful cloth coat
with a gorgeous beaver collar, although it was already the end of April.
He impressed Nejdanov and Paklin, and even Mashurina and
Ostrodumov, with his elegant, easy carriage and courteous manner.
They all rose instinctively on his