instance, Varvara Ardalionovna Ptitsin, her husband, and
her brother, Gania.

There is nothing so annoying as to be fairly rich, of a fairly good
family, pleasing presence, average education, to be "not stupid,"
kind-hearted, and yet to have no talent at all, no originality, not a
single idea of one's own--to be, in fact, "just like everyone else."

Of such people there are countless numbers in this world--far more even
than appear. They can be divided into two classes as all men can--that
is, those of limited intellect, and those who are much cleverer. The
former of these classes is the happier.

To a commonplace man of limited intellect, for instance, nothing is
simpler than to imagine himself an original character, and to revel in
that belief without the slightest misgiving.

Many of our young women have thought fit to cut their hair short, put on
blue spectacles, and call themselves Nihilists. By doing this they have
been able to persuade themselves, without further trouble, that they
have acquired new convictions of their own. Some men have but felt some
little qualm of kindness towards their fellow-men, and the fact has
been quite enough to persuade them that they stand alone in the van of
enlightenment and that no one has such humanitarian feelings as they.
Others have but to read an idea of somebody else's, and they can
immediately assimilate it and believe that it was a child of their own
brain. The "impudence of ignorance," if I may use the expression, is
developed to a wonderful extent in such cases;--unlikely as it appears,
it is met with at every turn.

This confidence of a stupid man in his own talents has been wonderfully
depicted by Gogol in the amazing character of Pirogoff. Pirogoff has
not the slightest doubt of his own genius,--nay, of his SUPERIORITY of
genius,--so certain is he of it that he never questions it. How
many Pirogoffs have there not been among our writers--scholars,
propagandists? I say "have been," but indeed there are plenty of them at
this very day.

Our friend, Gania, belonged to the other class--to the "much cleverer"
persons, though he was from head to foot permeated and saturated with
the longing to be original. This class, as I have said above, is far
less happy. For the "clever commonplace" person, though he may possibly
imagine himself a man of genius and originality, none the less has
within his heart the deathless worm of suspicion and doubt; and this
doubt sometimes