But it exists only in the mind, which feels no satisfaction in the constant indulgence of a single emotion, and it may, as in pearls and diamonds, be enjoyed for itself alone, without material possession, as gratuitously as the surpassing beauty of a splendid sunset. Nor would, perhaps, the exigencies of fashion—which may be fully met by imitations so deceptive as to elude ordinary detection—raise the price of the real much beyond the fictitious gem, unless the fashionable were as scrupulous as ladies were in the reign of Elizabeth, who, according to Fuller, “would have as patiently digested a lie, as the wearing of false stones or pendants of counterfeit pearl.”
But regarded as insignia of wealth, possession is a sine quâ non, and the extravagant price is essential to its object, and the more extravagant it is, the higher the gratification to be derived from it, because this implies increased distinction—the consequence of fewer enjoying a superfluity of wealth. The desire also to acquire a beautiful article of exaggerated value is independent of an appreciation of beauty per se, and is principally a purely factitious desire, varying for no better reason than because other people in general by a tacit consensus think more or less of it; and if society should agree to think any object, whether beautiful or not, a convenient vehicle to attract attention to any quality it values, such as wealth, refinement, haut ton, elegance, or culture, a new value is immediately given to such object, which the rage to acquire may exaggerate to outrageous extravagance. If, for instance, diamonds and pearls had not been taken into favour by princes, from time immemorial all the world over, they might not now, perhaps, have a much higher value than Brighton pebbles or Whitby jet. And if blue fox feet fur had not been adopted by the Muscovite grandees, it might have no higher value than grey fox or squirrel. But it is plainly envy and admiration of riches that the Russian grandees buy, and when they have a relish for the luxury they pay for it as munificently as Lucullus paid for a magnificent supper, who probably thought as little of the epicurean gratification to be got out of a dish of peacock’s brains, as these nabobs think of the comfort or elegance to be got out of a cloak of blue fox feet, the sentimental value of which they estimate at the rate of sixteen hundred pounds sterling!—W. C.
Note 11, Chap. XV., [Page 278].
The author of “Chto dyelat” was Tschernishevsky, who wrote it in the Petro-Paolovsky fortress at St. Petersburg. He had written also several romances during his imprisonment, all of which he had burnt with his own hand. According to his own statement, it does not appear that he was imprisoned on account of anything he had written. In the month of December, 1883, he was living as a free convict under surveillance at Astrachan, and on the 11th of this month, had completed his long term of nearly twenty years of banishment. He gave the following account of his treatment as a prisoner to a correspondent of the Daily News, whose interesting letter regarding him was published in that journal, December 22nd, 1883.
“I was always treated by the agents of the Government as respectfully as any man could desire. My treatment was not that of a convict, but, throughout, that of a prisoner of war. The hard labour, of which I have spoken, was for me, as well as for many of the Russian and Polish political exiles, among whom my lot was cast, a name only—it existed on paper, but had no reality.”—W. C.
Note 12, Chap. XVI., [Page 287].
The reader perhaps may not know why, in mentioning the names of certain persons, their family names are preceded by two baptismal names. It is because in Russia courtesy demands that, in addressing anyone, you should add the baptismal name of his father, to which is affixed the termination ovitch. Thus Iwan Michäelovitch Nemptchinof means Iwan the son of Michael Nemptchinof. This double appellation, not merely polite, but indeed the most respectful of all, especially when the family name is not added, is so rigorously exacted by usage, that the Emperor, in the public acts, is designated Alexander Nicolaevitch. It is one of the grossest insults to address anyone by his sole baptismal name as we are accustomed to do in our intimacies: it seems that in omitting the name of the father in addressing a Russian you would insinuate that he was obscure and unknown and of illegitimate birth.
Note 13, Chap. XVI., [Page 301].
The same fact has been remarked by Blanchard (Animaux articulés, Paris, 1846), and by Lacordaire (Introduction à l’entomologie, tome III, [page 383]).