A Dreary Story

THERE is in Russia an emeritus Professor Nikolay Stepanovitch, a chevalierand privy councillor; he has so many Russian and foreign decorations thatwhen he has occasion to put them on the students nickname him `TheIkonstand.` His acquaintances are of the most aristocratic; for the lasttwenty-five or thirty years, at any rate, there has not been one singledistinguished man of learning in Russia with whom he has not beenintimately acquainted. There is no one for him to make friends withnowadays; but if we turn to the past, the long list of his famous friendswinds up with such names as Pirogov, Kavelin, and the poet Nekrasov, allof whom bestowed upon him a warm and sincere affection. He is a member ofall the Russian and of three foreign universities. And so on, and so on.All that and a great deal more that might be said makes up what is calledmy `name.`

That is my name as known to the public. In Russia it is known to everyeducated man, and abroad it is mentioned in the lecture-room with theaddition `honoured and distinguished.` It is one of those fortunate namesto abuse which or to take which in vain, in public or in print, isconsidered a sign of bad taste. And that is as it should be. You see, myname is closely associated with the conception of a highly distinguishedman of great gifts and unquestionable usefulness. I have the industry andpower of endurance of a camel, and that is important, and I have talent,which is even more important. Moreover, while I am on this subject, I am awell-educated, modest, and honest fellow. I have never poked my nose intoliterature or politics; I have never sought popularity in polemics withthe ignorant; I have never made speeches either at public dinners or atthe funerals of my friends.... In fact, there is no slur on my learnedname, and there is no complaint one can make against it. It is fortunate.

The bearer of that name, that is I, see myself as a man of sixty-two, witha bald head, with false teeth, and with an incurable tic douloureux. I ammyself as dingy and unsightly as my name is brilliant and splendid. Myhead and my hands tremble with weakness; my neck, as Turgenev says of oneof his heroines, is like the handle of a double bass; my chest is hollow;my shoulders narrow; when I talk or lecture, my mouth turns down at onecorner; when I smile, my whole face is covered with aged-looking, deathlywrinkles. There is nothing impressive about my pitiful figure; only,perhaps, when I have an attack of tic douloureux my face wears a peculiarexpression, the sight of which must have roused in every one the grim andimpressive thought, `Evidently that man will soon die.`

I still, as in the past, lecture fairly well; I can still, as in the past,hold the attention of my listeners for a couple of hours. My fervour, theliterary skill of my exposition, and my humour, almost efface the defectsof my voice, though it is harsh, dry, and monotonous as a prayingbeggar's. I write poorly. That bit of my brain which presides over thefaculty of authorship refuses to work. My memory has grown weak; there isa lack of sequence in my ideas, and when I put them on paper it alwaysseems to me that I have lost the instinct for their organic connection; myconstruction is monotonous; my language is poor and timid. Often I writewhat I do not mean; I have forgotten the beginning when I am writing theend. Often I forget ordinary words, and I always have to waste a greatdeal of energy in avoiding superfluous phrases and unnecessary parenthesesin my letters, both unmistakable proofs of a decline in mental activity.And it is noteworthy that the simpler the letter the more painful theeffort to write it. At a scientific article I feel far more intelligentand at ease than at a letter of congratulation or a minute of proceedings.Another point: I find it easier to write German or English than to writeRussian.