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Chapter 1 Almost two months had passed. The hot summer was half over, but Sergei Ivanovich was only just preparing to leave Moscow.

Sergei Ivanovich's life had not been uneventful during this time.

A year ago he had finished his book, the fruit of six years' labor. An Inquiry Concerning the Principles and Forms of Government in Europe and Russia . Several sections of this book and its introduction had appeared in periodical publications, and other parts had been read by Sergei Ivanovich to persons of his circle, so that the leading ideas of the work could not be entirely novel to the public. But still, Sergei Ivanovich had expected that on its appearance his book would be sure to make a serious impression on society, and if it did not cause a revolution in social science it would, at any rate, make a great stir in the scientific world.

After the most conscientious revision the book had last year been published, and had been distributed among the booksellers.

Though he asked no one about it, reluctantly and with feigned indifference answered his friends' inquiries as to how the book was going, and did not even inquire of the booksellers how the book was selling, Sergei Ivanovich was all on the alert, with strained attention, watching for the first impression his book would make in the world and in literature.

But a week passed, a second, a third, and in society no impression whatever could be detected. Those of 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 especially absorbed in other things - was absolutely indifferent. In the press, too, for a whole month there was not a word about his book.

Sergei Ivanovich 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. Sergei Ivanovich 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 relations.

In spite of his absolute contempt for the author, it was with complete respect that Sergei Ivanovich 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 wittily done that Sergei Ivanovich would not have disowned such wit himself. But that was just what was so awful.

In spite of the scrupulous conscientiousness with which Sergei Ivanovich 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 every detail of his meeting and conversation with the author of the article.

`Didn't I offend him in some way?' Sergei Ivanovich wondered.

And remembering that when they met he had corrected the young man about something he had said that betrayed ignorance, Sergei Ivanovich found the explanation for the trend of the article.

This article was followed by a deadly silence about the book both in the press and in conversation, and Sergei Ivanovich saw that his six years' task, toiled at with such love and labor, had gone, leaving no trace.

Sergei Ivanovich's position was still more difficult from the fact that, since he had finished his book, he had had more literary work to do, such as had hitherto occupied the greater part of his time.

Sergei Ivanovich 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.

Fortunately for him, at this period so difficult for him because of the failure of his book, the various public questions of the dissenting sects, of the American Friends, of the Samara famine, of exhibition, and of spiritualism, were definitely replaced in public interest by the Slavonic question, which had hitherto rather languidly interested society, and Sergei Ivanovich, who had been one of the first to raise this subject, threw himself into it heart and soul.

In the circle to which Sergei Ivanovich belonged, nothing was talked of or written about just now but the Servian war. Everything that the idle crowd usually does to kill time was done now for the benefit of the Slavonic peoples. Balls, concerts, dinners, speeches, ladies' dresses, beer, taverns - everything testified to sympathy with the Slavonic peoples.