finally conquered the courageous mauntaineers, emigrated for the most part to Turkey, while a smaller number of them settled down in the plain of Kuban.
“Look, every inch of soil here bears witness to the fame of Barjatynsky,” exclaimed the old Colonel with sparkling eyes. “It was a hard piece of heroic labor that he accomplished before he finally broke down the desperate resistance of the Circassians in these remote mountain regions.”
“Hm, fame—fame—“remarked Aglaja Andrejevna, disdainfully curling her pink lips. “What is fame?”
“Oh, Aglaja Andrejevna, you ask what fame is,” said the Colonel in a tone of surprise. “Perhaps you scorn the laurels of the hero, who in noble enthusiasm to good effect helped with his sword to clear the way for the great world-wide mission of his country?”
“If fame is based on wholesale slaughter in general, and on gratifying the ambition or domineering instincts of an individual or of a whole nation in particular,—yes, fame of that sort fills me not merely with contempt, but with disgust as well,” exclaimed the girl-student in a decisive tone and her cold green eye flashed vividly for a moment.
“In this matter I must express my agreement with Aglaja Andrejevna, sir” said Suslikov, intervening in the conversation with his little sing-song voice. “Before very long the time will come when the history of mankind will have to be revised in the spirit of true and pure humanity, when Clio will erase from her scroll the names of ambitious egoists, who for the sake of fame have waded through an ocean of human blood, and during long ages have led mankind astray by their pernicious example. In their places will be inscribed only the names of the real benefactors of mankind, the great thinkers, scholars, poets, artists and geniuses who are worthy of a share in immortality. Yes, from this point of view, fame is in truth a worthy goal for human endeavor. See, such a man departs as an individual to the grave, he perishes and disappears for ever, and with him what we call his spirit or soul, but his name and the memory of his works live in the hearts of countless future generations,—this is the true and only immortality.”
“Excellent, Roman Lvovič,” said Aglaja Andrejevna with an ironical smile, “the most competent German professor would not need to be ashamed of your lecture. But in spite of it all, I could very well do without even that kind of immortality. To live beyond the grave in the praise bestowed by future generations, of which I shall know nothing, nothing whatever—no, that prospect does not attract me. And fame during one’s lifetime,—believe me, that ambition is a craving which causes mankind not only a hundred times more harm than good, but for individuals, as well, is the source of far more suffering than happiness. However, all this is an amusing game with words, phrases—phrases—phrases.”
“Oh, this is a fine thing indeed,” exclaimed Colonel Revnin, now really indignant. “These, then, are the opinions held by our young people, in whom our hopes are set? These, then, are the fruits of the present-day advanced education? We have grown grey in the opinion that, by fighting for the honor and victory of our country, we acquire honorable and lasting merits,—and in the meanwhile, we learn at the close of our lives, that our honorable wounds are in reality a sign of shame and disgrace . . . And our highly educated daughters actually declare that it is not worth while for a man to acquire any merits in respect of posterity,—for the grave is an end to everything, and it is a matter of indifference what opinions future people will form about us. Tell me, Uljana, have you imbibed similar views at your college?”
Uljana has listened only to the beginning of the discusion, and had then become dreamily immersed in the mountain landscape. Interrupted now by her father’s question, she collected her thoughts for a moment and then said with increasing enthusiasm: “What do I think of fame? I myself would not trouble about it. But I see sublime beauty in the idea of a man who, by bravery or wisdom, uplifts himself high above the unknown multitude, and snatches from heaven upon his brow, at least a twinkling ray of immortality. That is in truth beautiful, sublimely beautiful,—is it not?” At this she fixed upon me her beautiful eyes, in whose deep blue glittered stars of enthusiasm, even though I might have had my own ideas about fame, how could I help agreeing with her after such a glance?
“Assuredly,” I assented. “Eagerness for fame is not the guiding principle of my life either, and I feel no resentment at being submerged without a memory in the unknown multitude. But I entirely agree that the longing for fame,—perhaps not the vain ambition and conceit, which pursue only immediate recognition, but the longing for fame beyond grave, is one of the most beautiful and at the same time one of the most noble passions of man. The longing for the praise of future generations, which he will never hear, for the preservation of his name upon this earth, from which his individuality would otherwise vanish without a trace,—is that not,—besides,—yes,—the immortality of mankind as a whole, in which the individual, urged by an unconscious instinct like a dying polyp in its coral abode,—yes,—besides,—”
“Tea, tea, if you please,” announced Anna Kirilovna in a loud voice, thus helping me out of the straits to which my scanty abilities as an orator, and my lack of fluency in Russian had reduced me.(To be continued.)
