A vital question; or, What is to be done?/III
III.
PREFACE.
"The motive of this story is love; the principal character is a woman. So far, so good, although the story itself may be poor enough," says my lady reader. "This is true," say I.
The man who reads is not limited to such weak conclusions. Apparently a man's thinking faculties are naturally stronger and better developed than a woman's. He says (very likely, however, woman also thinks the same thing, but does not deem it necessary to say it, and therefore I have no cause to argue with her), the man who reads says, "I know that the gentleman who fired the pistol did not commit suicide." I catch that word "know," and say, "You do not know it, because you have not yet been told, and all you know is that which is told you. You don't know anything. You do not even know that, by the way in which I began this story, I insulted, I humiliated you. You did not know that, did you? Well, then, let me tell you!"
Yes, the first pages of this story show that I have a very low opinion of the public. I have used the ordinary shrewdness of novelists: I began my story with effective scenes, clipt out from the middle or the end of it; I covered them with a fog. Thou, O public, art clever, very clever, and therefore thou hast neither discernment nor wit. Thou canst not depend upon thyself to tell by the first pages whether the story is worth reading through. Thy sense of smell is wretched; it needs aid, and there are two ways of giving aid,—either the name of the author or effectiveness of style. I am going to relate to thee my first story. Thou hast not acquired a critical faculty, so as to judge whether or no the author is endowed with an artistic talent (yet thou hast so many writers, to whom thou hast attributed an artistic talent!), but my name, has not yet attracted thee, and I am compelled to throw a hook to thee, baited with an attraction of effectiveness. Condemn me not for it. Thou thyself art to blame; thy simple-minded innocence compels me to lower myself to such trivial business. But now thou art caught in my hands, and I can prolong my story, according to my own judgment, without any tricks. Henceforth there shall be no mysteries; thou shalt always be able to look forward twenty pages at a time and see the result of every situation, and now, at the very beginning, I will tell thee the conclusion of my story: the thing will end joyfully, with wine-cups, with song; there will be no theatrical effects nor embellishments. The author does not like embellishments, gentle public, because he always thinks what a chaos there is in thy head; how many, many needless sufferings are caused, inflicted upon every man by the wild confusion of thy ideas. It is to me both pitiful and ridiculous to look at thee; thou art so helpless and so piqued at the superabundant amount of absurdities in thy head.
I am vext with thee because thou art so spiteful to people, and yet thou thyself art the people. Why art thou so spiteful to thyself? That is the reason that I am scolding thee. But thou art spiteful on account of thy mental helplessness; and therefore, while I am scolding thee, I am compelled to help thee. What shall be the first step toward helping thee? By touching upon the very thing that now thou art thinking about. "What sort of an author is this who speaks so impudently to me?" I will tell thee what kind of an author I am.
I do not possess the slightest sign of an artistic talent. My skill in using good language is small, but that is not of the least consequence. Read! my dear public; not without profit shalt thou read. Truth is a good thing; truth compensates for the faults of that author who serves her. And therefore I will tell thee, that if I had not warned thee, thou wouldst probably have the idea my story was written artistically, that the author possessed a great poetic talent. But I have warned thee that I have no talent, and thou shalt now know that all the good qualities of this story lie in its truthfulness.
In the first place, my kind public, as I am hitting thee under the ribs, I must speak out to the end; although thou art fond of guessing, thou hast no skill to unriddle what has been begun and now ended. When I say that I have not a sign of an artistic talent, and that my story has very little style, don't make up thy mind that I am very much worse than all thy novelists, whom thou callest great, and that my novel is worse than theirs. I do not say that. I say that my story has less style than the works of other people who are endowed with talent. But, as far as merit goes, thou canst boldly place my story in the same rank as the famous writings of thy favorite authors; thou wilt not be mistaken if thou place it still higher. There is more art in it than in theirs; thou mayest rest assured of it.
Thank me now; thou art obsequious to those who despise thee: bow also to me.
But there is in thee, O public, a certain class of people—and at the present time a considerable number—whom I esteem. To thee as a whole; to the majority I am impertinent, and it is only about the majority that I have been speaking. As regards those whom I have just mentioned I should have spoken humbly to them, even with some fear, but I had no need of making explanations to them. I prize their opinions, but I know beforehand that they are on my side. The good and the strong, the honest, the wise, ye have begun to arise among us; ye are not few in number, and ye are growing more and more. If ye were the public, I should not have to write any more; if ye did not exist, it would be impossible for me to write. But ye are not yet the public, but ye are a part of the public; therefore, I must and I can write.