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THE COMPLETE NOVELS OF DOSTOYEVSKY. Fyodor Dostoyevsky
Читать онлайн.Название THE COMPLETE NOVELS OF DOSTOYEVSKY
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isbn 9788027201273
Автор произведения Fyodor Dostoyevsky
Жанр Языкознание
Издательство Bookwire
“I was da-ancing,” said Falaley, mastering his sobs.
“What were you dancing? What dance? Speak!”
“The Komarinsky. …”
“The Komarinsky! And who was that Komarinsky? What was the Komarinsky? Do you suppose I can understand anything from that answer? Come, give us an idea. Who was your Komarinsky?”
“A pea-easant. …”
“A peasant, only a peasant! I am surprised! A remarkable peasant, then! Then was it some celebrated peasant, if poems and dances are made about him? Come, answer!”
Foma could not exist without tormenting people, he played with his victim like a cat with a mouse; but Falaley remained mute, whimpering and unable to understand the question.
“Answer,” Foma persisted. “You are asked what sort of peasant was it? Speak! … Was he a seignorial peasant, a crown peasant, free, bond, industrial? There are ever so many sorts of peasants. …”
“In-dus-tri-al. …”
“Ah, industrial! Do you hear, Pavel Semyonitch? A new historical fact: the Komarinsky peasant was industrial. H’m… . Well, what did that industrial peasant do? For what exploits is he celebrated in song … and dance?”
The question was a delicate one, and since it was put to Falaley, a risky one too.
“Come … Though …” Obnoskin began, glancing towards his mamma, who was beginning to wriggle on the sofa in a peculiar way.
But what was to be done? Foma Fomitch’s whims were respected as law.
“Upon my word, uncle, if you don’t suppress that fool he’ll … you see what he is working up to — Falaley will blurt out some nonsense, I assure you …” I whispered to my uncle, who was utterly distracted and did not know what line to take.
“You had really better, Foma ..,” he began. “Here, I want to introduce to you, Foma, my nephew, a young man who is studying mineralogy.”
“I “beg you, Colonel, not to interrupt me with your mineralogy, a subject of which, as far as I am aware, you know nothing, and others perhaps little more. I am not a baby. He will answer me that this peasant, instead of working for the welfare of his family, has been drinking till he is tipsy, has sold his coat for drink, and is running about the street in an inebriated condition. That is, as is well known, the subject of the poem that sings the praises of drink. Don’t be uneasy, he knows now what he has to answer. Come, answer: what did that peasant do? Come, I have prompted you, I have put the words into your mouth. What I want is to hear it from you yourself, what he did, for what he was famous, how he gained the immortal glory of being sung by the troubadours. Well?”
The luckless Falaley looked round him in misery and, not knowing what to say, opened and shut his mouth like a carp hauled out of the water on to the sand.
“I am ashamed to sa-ay!” he bellowed at last in utter despair.
“Ah, ashamed to say!” bellowed Foma in triumph. “See, that’s the answer I have wrung out of him, Colonel! Ashamed to say, but not ashamed to do. That’s the morality which you have sown, which has sprung up and which you are now … watering; but it is useless to waste words! Go to the kitchen now, Falaley. I’ll say nothing to you now, out of regard for my audience, but to-day, to-day you will be severely and rigorously punished. If not, if this time they put you before me, you may stay here and entertain your betters with the Komarinsky while I will leave this house to-day! That’s enough. I have spoken, you can go!”
“Come, I think you really are severe ..,” mumbled Obnoskin.
“Just so, just so, just so,” my uncle began crying out, but he broke off and subsided. Foma looked gloomily askance at him.
“I wonder, Pavel Semyonitch,” he went on, “what all our contemporary writers, poets, learned men and thinkers are about. How is it they pay no attention to what songs are being sung by the Russian people and to what songs they are dancing? What have the Pushkins, the Lermontovs, the Borozdins been about all this time? I wonder at them. The people dance the Komarinsky, the apotheosis of drunkenness, while they sing of forget-me-nots! Why don’t they write poems of a more moral tone for popular use, why don’t they fling aside their forget-me-nots? It’s a social question. Let them depict a peasant, but a peasant made genteel, so to say, a villager and not a peasant; let them paint me the village sage in his simplicity, maybe even in his bark shoes — I don’t object even to that — but brimming over with the virtues which — I make bold to say — some over-lauded Alexander of Macedon may envy. I know Russia and Russia knows me, that is why I say this. Let them portray that peasant, weighed down maybe with a family and grey hair, in a stuffy hut, hungry, too, maybe, but contented; not repining, but blessing his poverty, and indifferent to the rich man’s gold. Let the rich man at last with softened heart bring him his gold; let, indeed, in this the virtues of the peasant be united with the virtues of his master, perhaps a grand gentleman. The villager and the grand gentleman so widely sparatcd in social grade are made one at last in virtue — that is an exalted thought! But what do we see? On one side forget-me-nots, and on the other the peasant dashing out of the pothouse and running about the street in a dishevelled condition! What is there poetic in that? Tell me, pray, what is there to admire in that? Where is the wit? Where is the grace? Where is the morality? I am amazed at it!”
“I am ready to pay you a hundred roubles for such words,” said Yezhevikin, with an enthusiastic air. “And you know the bald devil will try and get it out of me,” he whispered on the sly. “Flatter away, flatter away!”
“H’m, yes … you’ve put that very well,” Obnoskin pronounced.
“Exactly so, exactly so,” cried my uncle, who had been listening with the deepest attention and looking at me with triumph. “What a subject has come up!” he whispered, rubbing his hands. “A topic of many aspects, dash it all! Foma Fomitch, here is my nephew,” he added, in the overflow of his feelings. “He is engaged in literary pursuits too, let me introduce him.”
As before, Foma Fomitch paid not the slightest attention to my uncle’s introduction.
“For God’s sake, don’t introduce me any more! I entreat you in earnest,” I whispered to my uncle, with a resolute air.
“Ivan Ivanitch!” Foma began, suddenly addressing Mizintchikov and looking intently at h’m, “we have just been talking. What is your opinion?”
“Mine? You are asking me?” Mizintchikov responded in surprise, looking as though he had only just woken up.
“Yes, you. I am asking you because I value the cfpinion of really clever people, and not the pioblematic wiseacres who are only clever because they are being continually introduced as clever people, as learned people, and are sometimes sent for expressly to be made a show ot or something of the sort.”
This thrust was aimed directly at me. And yet there was no doubt that though Foma Fomitch took no notice whatever of me, he had begun this whole conversation concerning literature entirely for my benefit, to dazzle, to annihilate, to crush at the first step the elever and learned young man from Petersburg. I at any rate had no doubt of it.
“If you want to know my opinion, I … I agree with your opinion,” answered Mizintchikov listlessly and reluctantly.
“You always agree with me! It’s positively wearisome,”
replied Foma. “I tell you frankly, Pavel Semyonitch,”