“He is; he has no heart. She is delicate, gentle, but he is a beastly wretch!” And Pólozof went on to describe Sólovtsof, and in such a way that Kirsánof had nothing to say. And really how could he help agreeing with Pólozof?
Sólovtsof was the very same Jean who, at the time before Storeshnikof’s courtship, ate supper with Serge and Julia after the opera. It is absolutely true that it is better for a respectable girl to die than to become the wife of such a man. He will pollute, he will chill, he will consume with his wretchedness a respectable woman; it is far better for her to die.
Kirsánof was lost in thought for some minutes. “No,” he said at length. “Well, am I really carried away by your earnestness? This case is without danger just because he is so bad. She cannot help seeing it; only give her time to look at it calmly.”
He began persistently to assure Pólozof what he had expressed to his daughter only as a suggestion, as possible—nay, even probable—that she would refuse this man whom she loved if he was really bad; and now he was absolutely sure of it, because the man she loved was very bad.
“I shall not tell you that marriage does not present such an importance if we look upon it coolly. If a woman is unhappy, then why should she not leave her husband? You consider this improper: your daughter has been brought up with the very same ideas; for you and her it seems really an irremediable loss, and before she would ever adopt new ideas, she would suffer with such a man till she died a death worse than consumption. But it is necessary to view the matter from another standpoint. Why should you not depend upon your daughter’s reason? She is not a fool, is she? Always count on reason; only allow it to act freely, and it will never prove fallacious when any cause is right. You yourself are to blame for your daughter’s attachment to him. Let him have free course, and he will bring your daughter round on your side, if the right is on your side. Passion blinds, especially if obstacles are put in the way of it; remove them, and your daughter will become reasonable. Give her liberty to love or not to love, and she will see whether this man is worthy of her love. Let him be her ‘bridegroom,’ and after some time she herself will dismiss him.”
Such a way of looking upon things was entirely new to Pólozof. He answered sharply that he did not believe any such nonsense; that he knows life too well; that he has seen too many examples of foolish people, to depend upon their reason; and so much the more absurd was it to trust the reason of a seventeen-year-old girl. Kirsánof tried in vain to prove to him that follies were committed only on two occasions—either under the momentary influence of excitement, or from restraint, in which case he is irritated by resistance. Such ideas seemed entirely ridiculous to Pólozof. “She has no sense; it would be foolish to trust such a child with this fate; sooner let her die.” From such reasoning it was impossible to stir him.
It is a fact, that no matter how set may be the ideas of a man who is in the wrong, when a man who is better developed, who knows more, who understands things more wisely, works constantly with the purpose of removing his errors, the errors must give way. It is so; but how long does a logical battle with him last? Of course all the conversation here recorded will fail of its result, though so far its influence upon Pólozof is not appreciable yet. The old man is beginning to think over Kirsánof’s words. This is unavoidable, and if such conversation should be kept up with him, he will come to himself. But he is proud of his experience; he looks upon himself as infallible; he is set and stubborn; it is possible to bring him to terms, without doubt, but it takes time, and all delay is dangerous. A long delay is surely fatal; and a long delay is inevitable when a methodical manner of conducting the logical battle with him is employed.
It was necessary to employ radical means. It is risky without doubt; but if it is employed, it is only a risk; without, it is sure death. And the risk in it is, in reality, not nearly so great as it may seem to a person who is less solid in his comprehension of the laws of life than this Kirsánof. The risk is not great at all, but it is serious. From the whole lottery only one ticket is a blank. And there is no probability of its being drawn—but supposing it were drawn? Whoever runs a risk must be ready not to wink if he draws the blank. Kirsánof saw the girl’s calm, quiet firmness, and he was sure of her. But had he the right to subject her to the risk? Of course he had. Now, out of a hundred chances, there is only one that she will not lose her health in this case. More than half of them are that she will lose it rapidly. But here, out of a thousand chances, one would be against her. Let her risk the lottery, though it is apparently more terrible because it is more rapid, but in reality it is incomparably less dangerous.
“All right,” said Kirsánof. “You do not want to cure her by those means which are in your power; I shall cure her with mine. Tomorrow I shall have another consultation.”
After he returned to the sick girl, he told her that her father was stubborn, more stubborn than he expected, and that it would be necessary to act towards him with severe
