the wife and other stories-第23章

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erything　delightful。　If　she　wanted　to　praise　me　she　would　say：　〃You　are　as　nice　as　cream；　papa。〃　We　used　to　call　one　of　her　little　fingers　〃pistachio　ice；〃　the　next；　〃cream　ice；〃　the　third　〃raspberry；〃　and　so　on。　Usually　when　she　came　in　to　say　good…morning　to　me　I　used　to　sit　her　on　my　knee；　kiss　her　little　fingers；　and　say：

〃Creamy　ice　。　。　。　pistachio　。　。　。　lemon。　。　。　。〃

And　now；　from　old　habit；　I　kiss　Liza's　fingers　and　mutter：　〃Pistachio　。　。　。　cream　。　。　。　lemon。　。　。〃　but　the　effect　is　utterly　different。　I　am　cold　as　ice　and　I　am　ashamed。　When　my　daughter　comes　in　to　me　and　touches　my　forehead　with　her　lips　I　start　as　though　a　bee　had　stung　me　on　the　head；　give　a　forced　smile；　and　turn　my　face　away。　Ever　since　I　have　been　suffering　from　sleeplessness；　a　question　sticks　in　my　brain　like　a　nail。　My　daughter　often　sees　me；　an　old　man　and　a　distinguished　man；　blush　painfully　at　being　in　debt　to　my　footman；　she　sees　how　often　anxiety　over　petty　debts　forces　me　to　lay　aside　my　work　and　to　walk　u　p　and　down　the　room　for　hours　together；　thinking；　but　why　is　it　she　never　comes　to　me　in　secret　to　whisper　in　my　ear：　〃Father；　here　is　my　watch；　here　are　my　bracelets；　my　earrings；　my　dresses。　。　。　。　Pawn　them　all；　you　want　money　。　。　。〃？　How　is　it　that；　seeing　how　her　mother　and　I　are　placed　in　a　false　position　and　do　our　utmost　to　hide　our　poverty　from　people；　she　does　not　give　up　her　expensive　pleasure　of　music　lessons？　I　would　not　accept　her　watch　nor　her　bracelets；　nor　the　sacrifice　of　her　lessons　　God　forbid！　That　isn't　what　I　want。

I　think　at　the　same　time　of　my　son；　the　officer　at　Warsaw。　He　is　a　clever；　honest；　and　sober　fellow。　But　that　is　not　enough　for　me。　I　think　if　I　had　an　old　father；　and　if　I　knew　there　were　moments　when　he　was　put　to　shame　by　his　poverty；　I　should　give　up　my　officer's　commission　to　somebody　else；　and　should　go　out　to　earn　my　living　as　a　workman。　Such　thoughts　about　my　children　poison　me。　What　is　the　use　of　them？　It　is　only　a　narrow…minded　or　embittered　man　who　can　harbour　evil　thoughts　about　ordinary　people　because　they　are　not　heroes。　But　enough　of　that！

At　a　quarter　to　ten　I　have　to　go　and　give　a　lecture　to　my　dear　boys。　I　dress　and　walk　along　the　road　which　I　have　known　for　thirty　years；　and　which　has　its　history　for　me。　Here　is　the　big　grey　house　with　the　chemist's　shop；　at　this　point　there　used　to　stand　a　little　house；　and　in　it　was　a　beershop；　in　that　beershop　I　thought　out　my　thesis　and　wrote　my　first　love…letter　to　Varya。　I　wrote　it　in　pencil；　on　a　page　headed　〃Historia　morbi。〃　Here　there　is　a　grocer's　shop；　at　one　time　it　was　kept　by　a　little　Jew；　who　sold　me　cigarettes　on　credit；　then　by　a　fat　peasant　woman；　who　liked　the　students　because　〃every　one　of　them　has　a　mother〃；　now　there　is　a　red…haired　shopkeeper　sitting　in　it；　a　very　stolid　man　who　drinks　tea　from　a　copper　teapot。　And　here　are　the　gloomy　gates　of　the　University；　which　have　long　needed　doing　up；　I　see　the　bored　porter　in　his　sheep…skin；　the　broom；　the　drifts　of　snow。　。　。　。　On　a　boy　coming　fresh　from　the　provinces　and　imagining　that　the　temple　of　science　must　really　be　a　temple；　such　gates　cannot　make　a　healthy　impression。　Altogether　the　dilapidated　condition　of　the　University　buildings；　the　gloominess　of　the　corridors；　the　griminess　of　the　walls；　the　lack　of　light；　the　dejected　aspect　of　the　steps；　the　hat…stands　and　the　benches；　take　a　prominent　position　among　predisposing　causes　in　the　history　of　Russian　pessimism。　。　。　。　Here　is　our　garden　。　。　。　I　fancy　it　has　grown　neither　better　nor　worse　since　I　was　a　student。　I　don't　like　it。　It　would　be　far　more　sensible　if　there　were　tall　pines　and　fine　oaks　growing　here　instead　of　sickly…looking　lime…trees；　yellow　acacias；　and　skimpy　pollard　lilacs。　The　student　whose　state　of　mind　is　in　the　majority　of　cases　created　by　his　surroundings；　ought　in　the　place　where　he　is　studying　to　see　facing　him　at　every　turn　nothing　but　what　is　lofty；　strong　and　elegant。　。　。　。　God　preserve　him　from　gaunt　trees；　broken　windows；　grey　walls；　and　doors　covered　with　torn　American　leather！

When　I　go　to　my　own　entrance　the　door　is　flung　wide　open；　and　I　am　met　by　my　colleague；　contemporary；　and　namesake；　the　porter　Nikolay。　As　he　lets　me　in　he　clears　his　throat　and　says：

〃A　frost；　your　Excellency！〃

Or；　if　my　great…coat　is　wet：

〃Rain；　your　Excellency！〃

Then　he　runs　on　ahead　of　me　and　opens　all　the　doors　on　my　way。　In　my　study　he　carefully　takes　off　my　fur　coat；　and　while　doing　so　manages　to　tell　me　some　bit　of　University　news。　Thanks　to　the　close　intimacy　existing　between　all　the　University　porters　and　beadles；　he　knows　everything　that　goes　on　in　the　four　faculties；　in　the　office；　in　the　rector's　private　room；　in　the　library。　What　does　he　not　know？　When　in　an　evil　day　a　rector　or　dean；　for　instance；　retires；　I　hear　him　in　conversation　with　the　young　porters　mention　the　candidates　for　the　post；　explain　that　such　a　one　would　not　be　confirmed　by　the　minister；　that　another　would　himself　refuse　to　accept　it；　then　drop　into　fantastic　details　concerning　mysterious　papers　received　in　the　office；　secret　conversations　alleged　to　have　taken　place　between　the　minister　and　the　trustee；　and　so　on。　With　the　exception　of　these　details；　he　almost　always　turns　out　to　be　right。　His　estimates　of　the　candidates；　though　original；　are　very　correct；　too。　If　one　wants　to　know　in　what　year　some　one　read　his　thesis；　entered　the　service；　retired；　or　died；　then　summon　to　your　assistance　the　vast　memory　of　that　soldier；　and　he　will　not　only　tell　you　the　year；　the　month　and　the　day；　but　will　furnish　you　also　with　the　details　that　accompanied　this　or　that　event。　Only　one　who　loves　can　remember　like　that。

He　is　the　guardian　of　the　University　traditions。　From　the　porters　who　were　his　predecessors　he　has　inherited　many　legends　of　University　life；　has　added　to　that　wealth　much　of　his　own　gained　during　his　time　of　service；　and　if　you　care　to　hear　he　will　tell　you　many　long　and　intimate　stories。　He　can　tell　one　about　extraordinary　sages　who　knew　_everything_；　about　remarkable　students　who　did　not　sleep　for　weeks；　about　numerous　martyrs　and　victims　of　science；　with　him　good　triumphs　over　evil；　the　weak　always　vanquishes　the　strong；　the　wise　man　the　fool；　the　humble　the　proud；　the　young　the　old。　There　is　no　need　to　take　all　these　fables　and　legends　for　sterling　coin；　but　filter　them；　and　you　will　have　left　what　is　wanted：　our　fine　traditions　and　the　names　of　real　heroes；　recognized　as　such　by　all。

In　our　society　the　knowledge　of　the　learned　world　consists　of　anecdotes　of　the　extraordinary　absentmindedness　of　certain　old　professors；　and　two　or　three　witticisms　variously　ascribed　to　Gruber；　to　me；　and　to　Babukin。　For　the　educated　public　that　is　not　much。　If　it　loved　science；　learned　men；　and　students；　as　Nikolay　does；　its　literature　would　long　ago　have　contained　whole　epics；　records　of　sayings　and　doings　such　as；　unfortunately；　it　cannot　boast　of　now。

After　telling　me　a　piece　of　news；　Nikolay　assumes　a　severe　expression；　and　conversation　about　business　begins。　If　any　outsider　could　at　such　times　overhear　Nikolay's　free　use　of　our　terminology；　he　might　perhaps　imagine　that　he　was　a　learned　man　disguised　as　a　soldier。　And；　by　the　way；　the　rumours　of　the　erudition　of　the　University　porters　are　greatly　exaggerated。　It　is　true　that　Nikolay　knows　more　than　a　hundred　Latin　words；　knows　how　to　put　the　skeleton　together；　sometimes　prepares　the　apparatus　and　amuses　the　students　by　some　long；　learned　quotation；　but　the　by　no　means　complicated　theory　of　the　circulation　of　the　blood；　for　instance；　is　as　much　a　mystery　to　him　now　as　it　was　twenty　years　ago。

At　the　table　in　my　study；　bending　low　over　some　book　or　preparation；　sits　Pyotr　Ignatyevitch；　my　demonstrator；　a　modest　and　industrious　but　by　no　means　clever　man　of　five…and…thirty；　already　bald　and　corpulent；　he　works　from　morning　to　night；　reads　a　lot；　remembers　well　everything　he　has　read　　and　in　that　way　he　is　not　a　man；　but　pure　gold；　in　all　else　he　is　a　carthorse　or；　in　other　words；　a　learned　dullard。　The　carthorse　characteristics　that　show　his　lack　of　talent　are　these：　his　outlook　is　narrow　and　sharply　limited　by　his　specialty；　outside　his　special　branch　he　is　simple　as　a　child。