Page:Anthology of Modern Slavonic Literature in Prose and Verse by Paul Selver.djvu/143

 

magistrate Porphyry was also a louse, and, finally, so was Raskolnikov himself. And Sonia, the poor skinny harlot, who would give herself to every such louse in the street,—does she stand above them? And amongst all this murdering, loving, condemning, drinking, and merry-making,—how unnaturally the virtuous Avdotya Romanovna is drawn! And you, reader, are sickened by men and the world, but, my dear fellow, look closely at yourself . . not only your clergyman, your teacher so and so, the person so and so, with whom you are acquainted, whom you despise, whom you loathe,—you yourself are just such a human louse, a superfluous creature of chance. You turn up your nose at the world,—but what do you demand of it? You are sickened by life,—who keeps you there? A stone falls into the water and nobody notices it, and the stream does not stand still. You are puffed up, vain, my reader,—quote a few of your ephemeral verses that have appeared in print,—those images, those rhymes, those banalities,—you cannot? Ah yes, immortal art is something quite different, something vastly remote from you . . you read, for instance, "Crime and Punishment," and you will writhe like a worm. . . Humble yourself, proud human louse, the meanest crossing-sweeper is worth as much as you, and perhaps more: he is well aware of his paltriness and has no wish to thrust his head among the stars. Scourge your