Excellent People Page #2

"Excellent People" is a short story by Anton Pavlovich Chekhov that delves into the lives and dilemmas of various characters, capturing the complexity of human nature and social interactions. The narrative revolves around a gathering at a summer estate where discussions about morality, society, and personal ambitions unfold. With Chekhov's signature wit and keen observations, the story explores themes of hypocrisy, the search for meaning, and the often conflicting desires of individuals, all while highlighting the peculiarities of the human condition. Through sharp dialogue and nuanced character portrayals, Chekhov invites readers to reflect on what it truly means to be 'excellent' in a flawed world.

								

story with great impatience, and so on.

"Fine story!" he said, flinging himself back in his chair and closing
his eyes with pleasure. "The tone is extremely good."

Vera Semyonovna looked at him, yawned aloud, and suddenly asked an
unexpected question. In the evening she had a habit of yawning nervously
and asking short, abrupt questions, not always relevant.

"Volodya," she asked, "what is the meaning of non-resistance to evil?"

"Non-resistance to evil!" repeated her brother, opening his eyes.

"Yes. What do you understand by it?"

"You see, my dear, imagine that thieves or brigands attack you, and you,
instead of . . ."

"No, give me a logical definition."

"A logical definition? Um! Well." Vladimir Semyonitch pondered. "Non-
resistance to evil means an attitude of non-interference with regard to
all that in the sphere of mortality is called evil."

Saying this, Vladimir Semyonitch bent over the table and took up a
novel. This novel, written by a woman, dealt with the painfulness of the
irregular position of a society lady who was living under the same roof
with her lover and her illegitimate child. Vladimir Semyonitch was
pleased with the excellent tendency of the story, the plot and the
presentation of it. Making a brief summary of the novel, he selected the
best passages and added to them in his account: "How true to reality,
how living, how picturesque! The author is not merely an artist; he is
also a subtle psychologist who can see into the hearts of his
characters. Take, for example, this vivid description of the emotions of
the heroine on meeting her husband," and so on.

"Volodya," Vera Semyonovna interrupted his critical effusions, "I've
been haunted by a strange idea since yesterday. I keep wondering where
we should all be if human life were ordered on the basis of non-
resistance to evil?"

"In all probability, nowhere. Non-resistance to evil would give the full
rein to the criminal will, and, to say nothing of civilisation, this
would leave not one stone standing upon another anywhere on earth."

"What would be left?"

"Bashi-Bazouke and brothels. In my next article I'll talk about that
perhaps. Thank you for reminding me."

And a week later my friend kept his promise. That was just at the
period--in the eighties--when people were beginning to talk and write of
non-resistance, of the right to judge, to punish, to make war; when some
people in our set were beginning to do without servants, to retire into
the country, to work on the land, and to renounce animal food and carnal
love.

After reading her brother's article, Vera Semyonovna pondered and hardly
perceptibly shrugged her shoulders.

"Very nice!" she said. "But still there's a great deal I don't
understand. For instance, in Leskov's story 'Belonging to the Cathedral'
there is a queer gardener who sows for the benefit of all--for customers,
for beggars, and any who care to steal. Did he behave sensibly?"

From his sister's tone and expression Vladimir Semyonitch saw that she
did not like his article, and, almost for the first time in his life,
his vanity as an author sustained a shock. With a shade of irritation he
answered:

"Theft is immoral. To sow for thieves is to recognise the right of
thieves to existence. What would you think if I were to establish a
newspaper and, dividing it into sections, provide for blackmailing as
well as for liberal ideas? Following the example of that gardener, I
ought, logically, to provide a section for blackmailers, the
intellectual scoundrels? Yes."

Vera Semyonovna made no answer. She got up from the table, moved
languidly to the sofa and lay down.

"I don't know, I know nothing about it," she said musingly. "You are
probably right, but it seems to me, I feel somehow, that there's
something false in our resistance to evil, as though there were
something concealed or unsaid. God knows, perhaps our methods of
resisting evil belong to the category of prejudices which have become so
deeply rooted in us, that we are incapable of parting with them, and
therefore cannot form a correct judgment of them."

"How do you mean?"

"I don't know how to explain to you. Perhaps man is mistaken in thinking
that he is obliged to resist evil and has a right to do so, just as he
is mistaken in thinking, for instance, that the heart looks like an ace
of hearts. It is very possible in resisting evil we ought not to use
force, but to use what is the very opposite of force--if you, for
instance, don't want this picture stolen from you, you ought to give it
away rather than lock it up. . . ."

"That's clever, very clever! If I want to marry a rich, vulgar woman,
she ought to prevent me from such a shabby action by hastening to make
me an offer herself!"

The brother and sister talked till midnight without understanding each
other. If any outsider had overheard them he would hardly have been able
to make out what either of them was driving at.

They usually spent the evening at home. There were no friends' houses to
which they could go, and they felt no need for friends; they only went
to the theatre when there was a new play--such was the custom in literary
circles--they did not go to concerts, for they did not care for music.

"You may think what you like," Vera Semyonovna began again the next day,
"but for me the question is to a great extent settled. I am firmly
convinced that I have no grounds for resisting evil directed against me
personally. If they want to kill me, let them. My defending myself will
not make the murderer better. All I have now to decide is the second
half of the question: how I ought to behave to evil directed against my
neighbours?"

"Vera, mind you don't become rabid!" said Vladimir Semyonitch, laughing.
"I see non-resistance is becoming your idée fixe!"

He wanted to turn off these tedious conversations with a jest, but
somehow it was beyond a jest; his smile was artificial and sour. His
sister gave up sitting beside his table and gazing reverently at his
writing hand, and he felt every evening that behind him on the sofa lay
a person who did not agree with him. And his back grew stiff and numb,
and there was a chill in his soul. An author's vanity is vindictive,
implacable, incapable of forgiveness, and his sister was the first and
only person who had laid bare and disturbed that uneasy feeling, which
is like a big box of crockery, easy to unpack but impossible to pack up
again as it was before.

Weeks and months passed by, and his sister clung to her ideas, and did
not sit down by the table. One spring evening Vladimir Semyonitch was
sitting at his table writing an article. He was reviewing a novel which
described how a village schoolmistress refused the man whom she loved
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