(^12121213)
in literature.
But a week passed, a second, a third, and in society no impression
whatever could be detected. His friends who were specialists and
savants, occasionally—unmistakably from politeness—alluded to it.
The rest of his acquaintances, not interested in a book on a learned
subject, did not talk of it at all. And society generally—just now espe-
cially absorbed in other things—was absolutely indifferent. In the
press, too, for a whole month there was not a word about his book.
Sergey Ivanovitch had calculated to a nicety the time necessary for
writing a review, but a month passed, and a second, and still there was
silence.
Only in the Northern Beetle, in a comic article on the singer
Drabanti, who had lost his voice, there was a contemptuous allusion to
Koznishev’s book, suggesting that the book had been long ago seen
through by everyone, and was a subject of general ridicule.
At last in the third month a critical article appeared in a serious
review. Sergey Ivanovitch knew the author of the article. He had met
him once at Golubtsov’s.
The author of the article was a young man, an invalid, very bold as
a writer, but extremely deficient in breeding and shy in personal rela-
tions.
In spite of his absolute contempt for the author, it was with com-
plete respect that Sergey Ivanovitch set about reading the article. The
article was awful.
The critic had undoubtedly put an interpretation upon the book
which could not possibly be put on it. But he had selected quotations
so adroitly that for people who had not read the book (and obviously
scarcely anyone had read it) it seemed absolutely clear that the whole
book was nothing but a medley of high-flown phrases, not even—as
suggested by marks of interrogation—used appropriately, and that the
author of the book was a person absolutely without knowledge of the
subject. And all this was so wittingly done that Sergey Ivanovitch
would not have disowned such wit himself. But that was just what was
so awful.
In spite of the scrupulous conscientiousness with which Sergey
Ivanovitch verified the correctness of the critic’s arguments, he did not
for a minute stop to ponder over the faults and mistakes which were
ridiculed; but unconsciously he began immediately trying to recall ev-
ery detail of his meeting and conversation with the author of the ar-
ticle.
“Didn’t I offend him in some way?” Sergey Ivanovitch wondered.
And remembering that when they met he had corrected the young
man about something he had said that betrayed ignorance, Sergey
Ivanovitch found the clue to explain the article.
This article was followed by a deadly silence about the book both
in the press and in conversation, and Sergey Ivanovitch saw that his six
years’ task, toiled at with such love and labor, had gone, leaving no
trace.
Sergey Ivanovitch’s position was still more difficult from the fact
that, since he had finished his book, he had had no more literary work
to do, such as had hitherto occupied the greater part of his time.
Sergey Ivanovitch was clever, cultivated, healthy, and energetic,
and he did not know what use to make of his energy. Conversations in
drawing rooms, in meetings, assemblies, and committees—everywhere
where talk was possible—took up part of his time. But being used for
years to town life, he did not waste all his energies in talk, as his less
experienced younger brother did, when he was in Moscow. He had a
great deal of leisure and intellectual energy still to dispose of.
barré
(Barré)
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