The generation of Chatskys of both sexes after Famusov’s ball, and generally speaking when the ball was over, increased and multiplied till they were as numerous out there as the sands of the sea. And not even the Chatskys alone: for everyone left Moscow to go abroad. There are goodness knows how many Repetilovs and Skalozubs there, retired by now and despatched to a watering place as unfit for further work.
Natalya Dmitryevna and her husband are life members of these institutions. Even Countess Khlyostov is taken there every year. All these people are tired even of Moscow. Molchalin alone is not among them; he has made other arrangements and remained at home, the only one to have done so.
He has, so to speak, dedicated himself to his country, to his fatherland… He is unattainable now and wouldn’t let Famusov inside his door: “Country neighbours, the Famusovs, not the people to greet in town.” He is in business and has found himself a job of work to do. He lives in St Petersburg and… and has been successful. “He knows Russia and Russia knows him.” Oh yes, knows him well, and will not forget him in a hurry. He is not even silent now; on the contrary, he is the only one to speak. He is the expert…
But enough of him! I mentioned them all, saying that they were trying to find a happy spot in Europe, and really I thought they preferred it there. But in fact their faces register such bored melancholy… Poor things! How restless they all are. How morbidly and sadly always on the move!
They all walk about with guidebooks and rush greedily in every town to see the sights, do it, indeed, as if in duty bound or as if they were still performing their state service: they would never miss a single palace – be it only three-window size – if only it is mentioned in the guidebook, not a single town mayor’s residence, very similar to the most ordinary Moscow or Petersburg house; they stare at Rubens’s meaty carcasses and believe that they represent the three graces because their guidebooks bid them believe it; they rush at the Sistine Madonna and stand in front of her in bovine expectation, the expectation that something will happen any minute now, that somebody will crawl out from underneath the floor and dispel their aimless, bored melancholy and fatigue. And then they go off surprised because nothing has happened.
This is not the self-satisfied and perfectly mechanical curiosity of British tourists – men and women – who look more into their guidebooks than at the sights, do not expect anything either new or extraordinary and merely check to see what the guidebook has to say and precisely how many feet or pounds any particular object measures or weighs. Our own curiosity is somehow savage, nervous, frantically eager, yet secretly convinced that nothing will ever happen – of course, till the very next fly that happens to buzz past, when it all begins again.
And now I am talking of intelligent people only. It is no use worrying about the others – God always looks after them – or about those who have made their home there, who are gradually forgetting their mother tongue and begin to listen to Catholic priests.* However, there is only one thing to be said about the whole lot of them: as soon as we get beyond Eydtkuhnen we all of us immediately become startlingly similar to those wretched little dogs which run about when they lose their master.
You don’t imagine, do you, that I am sneering at anyone, or blaming somebody because “at the present time when, etc., you remain abroad! The peasant problem is in full swing, and you remain abroad!” and so on and so forth? Oh not at all, not in the slightest. Besides, who am I to blame anyone? Whom should I blame and for what? “We would like to do some useful work, but there is no work, and what there is of it is being done without us anyway. All the jobs have been taken and there are no vacancies in view. It’s no use trying to barge in where there is no call for you.” That’s their whole excuse and not a very impressive one at that. Besides, we know that excuse by heart.
But what is this? Where did I get to? How have I had time to see the Russians abroad? We are only coming into Eydtkuhnen… or have passed it by now. In fact we have; Berlin and Dresden and Cologne – we have passed them all. It is true I am still sitting in a railway carriage, but before us is Erquelines, and not Eydtkuhnen, and we are entering France.* Paris, it’s Paris
I wanted to talk about – and forgot. That’s because I let my thoughts wander on the subject of our Russian Europe; which is forgivable in a man who is himself on the way to visiting European Europe. But anyway, there is no need to insist on being forgiven. This chapter of mine is superfluous, as you will remember.
4
Which Is Not Superfluous for the Travellers’Final Verdict on the Irrationality of Frenchmen
BUT WHY IS IT, after all, that Frenchmen are not rational?”
I asked myself this question as I was examining four new passengers, Frenchmen, who had just come into our carriage. They were the first Frenchmen I met on their native soil, if I discount the customs official in Erquelines, which we had just left. The customs officials had been exceedingly polite, did their job quickly and I entered my carriage very pleased with my debut in France.
As far as Erquelines, though our compartment had eight seats, there were only two of us: myself and a Swiss, a middle-aged man, simple and reserved, and a pleasant conversationalist at that, so that we chatted all the time for about two hours on end. But now there were six of us, and to my astonishment my Swiss, at the sight of our four new companions, fell all of a sudden almost completely silent.
I made an attempt to continue our conversation, but he was obviously eager to change the subject, gave short non-committal answers, turned away from me with an air almost of annoyance, gazed at the view out of the window for a bit and then, taking out his German guidebook, was soon entirely absorbed in it. I abandoned him at once and, without saying a word, concentrated my attention on our new companions.
They were odd folk, somehow. They carried no luggage and bore not the slightest resemblance to travellers. They did not have so much as a bundle between them, nor were they dressed in a way calculated to make them look like travellers. They all wore a thin sort of frock coat, terribly shabby and threadbare, little better than those worn by our officers’batmen or by servants in the house of a not very well-off country squire.
Their shirts were dirty, their neckties very bright and also very dirty; one of them wore the remnants of a silk kerchief, of the kind which are constantly worn and become stiff with grease after fifteen years’ contact with the wearer’s neck. The man also had studs with imitation diamonds the size of a hazelnut. However, there was a certain smartness and even dash about them.
All four appeared to be of the same age – thirty-five or thereabout – and though their faces were dissimilar, they themselves were much alike. Their faces, somewhat haggard in appearance, had the usual little French beards, which also looked very much alike. They were obviously people with a large and varied experience behind them, who had acquired a permanently businesslike if sour expression. Also I
got the impression that they knew each other, but I do not remember them exchanging a single word. It was fairly obvious that they did not want to look at us – that is, at the Swiss and at me – they sat and smoked with a somewhat nonchalant air, and affected complete indifference, as they riveted their gaze on the windows of the compartment.
I lit a cigarette and began to examine them for lack of anything better to do. True enough, the question did flit through my mind – what sort of people can they possibly be? Not quite workmen, but not quite bourgeois either. Could they possibly be ex-soldiers? Something à demi-solde* perhaps? However, I did not worry about them too much. Ten minutes later, as soon as we reached the next station, all four of them jumped out of the train one after the other; the door slammed and we sped on. Along this route the train hardly waits at the stations: about two minutes, three at the most, and on it rushes. The transport is excellent, in other words – very quick.
As soon as we found ourselves alone, the Swiss immediately shut his guidebook, put it aside and looked at me with an air of satisfaction, obviously keen to renew our conversation.
“These fellows did not stay long,” I began, looking at him with some curiosity.
“But they only intended to travel to the next station.” “Do you know them?”
“Them?… Why, they are the police…”
“How do you mean? What police?” I asked with surprise. “There now… I noticed at once you had no
