Poor Folk by Fyodor Dostoyevsky (most read books txt) đ
- Author: Fyodor Dostoyevsky
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What a splendid thing is literature, Barbaraâwhat a splendid thing! This I learnt before I had known Rataziaev even for three days. It strengthens and instructs the heart of man⊠. No matter what there be in the world, you will find it all written down in Rataziaevâs works. And so well written down, too!
Literature is a sort of pictureâa sort of picture or mirror. It connotes at once passion, expression, fine criticism, good learning, and a document. Yes, I have learned this from Rataziaev himself. I can assure you, Barbara, that if only you could be sitting among us, and listening to the talk (while, with the rest of us, you smoked a pipe), and were to hear those present begin to argue and dispute concerning different matters, you would feel of as little account among them as I do; for I myself figure there only as a blockhead, and feel ashamed, since it takes me a whole evening to think of a single word to interpolateâand even then the word will not come! In a case like that a man regrets that, as the proverb has it, he should have reached manâs estate but not manâs understanding⊠. What do I do in my spare time?
I sleep like a fool, though I would far rather be occupied with something elseâsay, with eating or writing, since the one is useful to oneself, and the other is beneficial to oneâs fellows.
You should see how much money these fellows contrive to save! How much, for instance, does not Rataziaev lay by? A few daysâ
writing, I am told, can earn him as much as three hundred roubles! Indeed, if a man be a writer of short stories or anything else that is interesting, he can sometimes pocket five hundred roubles, or a thousand, at a time! Think of it, Barbara!
Rataziaev has by him a small manuscript of verses, and for it he is askingâwhat do you think? Seven thousand roubles! Why, one could buy a whole house for that sum! He has even refused five thousand for a manuscript, and on that occasion I reasoned with him, and advised him to accept the five thousand. But it was of no use. âFor,â said he, âthey will soon offer me seven thousand,â
and kept to his point, for he is a man of some determination.
Suppose, now, that I were to give you an extract from âPassion in Italyâ (as another work of his is called). Read this, dearest Barbara, and judge for yourself:
âVladimir started, for in his veins the lust of passion had welled until it had reached boiling point.
ââCountess,â he cried, âdo you know how terrible is this adoration of mine, how infinite this madness? No! My fancies have not deceived meâI love you ecstatically, diabolically, as a madman might! All the blood that is in your husbandâs body could never quench the furious, surging rapture that is in my soul! No puny obstacle could thwart the all-destroying, infernal flame which is eating into my exhausted breast! 0h Zinaida, my Zinaida!â
ââVladimir!â she whispered, almost beside herself, as she sank upon his bosom.
ââMy Zinaida!â cried the enraptured Smileski once more.
âHis breath was coming in sharp, broken pants. The lamp of love was burning brightly on the altar of passion, and searing the hearts of the two unfortunate sufferers.
ââVladimir!â again she whispered in her intoxication, while her bosom heaved, her cheeks glowed, and her eyes flashed fire.
âThus was a new and dread union consummated.
âHalf an hour later the aged Count entered his wifeâs boudoir.
ââHow now, my love?â said he. âSurely it is for some welcome guest beyond the common that you have had the samovar [Tea-urn.]
thus prepared?â And he smote her lightly on the cheek.â
What think you of THAT, Barbara? True, it is a little too outspokenâthere can be no doubt of that; yet how grand it is, how splendid! With your permission I will also quote you an extract from Rataziaevâs story, Ermak and Zuleika: ââYou love me, Zuleika? Say again that you love me, you love me!â
ââI DO love you, Ermak,â whispered Zuleika.
ââThen by heaven and earth I thank you! By heaven and earth you have made me happy! You have given me all, all that my tortured soul has for immemorial years been seeking! âTis for this that you have led me hither, my guiding starââtis for this that you have conducted me to the Girdle of Stone! To all the world will I now show my Zuleika, and no man, demon or monster of Hell, shall bid me nay! Oh, if men would but understand the mysterious passions of her tender heart, and see the poem which lurks in each of her little tears! Suffer me to dry those tears with my kisses! Suffer me to drink of those heavenly drops, 0h being who art not of this earth!â
ââErmak,â said Zuleika, âthe world is cruel, and men are unjust.
But LET them drive us from their midstâlet them judge us, my beloved Ermak! What has a poor maiden who was reared amid the snows of Siberia to do with their cold, icy, self-sufficient world? Men cannot understand me, my darling, my sweetheart.â
ââIs that so? Then shall the sword of the Cossacks sing and whistle over their heads!â cried Ermak with a furious look in his eyes.â
What must Ermak have felt when he learnt that his Zuleika had been murdered, Barbara?âthat, taking advantages of the cover of night, the blind old Kouchoum had, in Ermakâs absence, broken into the latterâs tent, and stabbed his own daughter in mistake for the man who had robbed him of sceptre and crown?
ââOh that I had a stone whereon to whet my sword!â cried Ermak in the madness of his wrath as he strove to sharpen his steel blade upon the enchanted rock. âI would have his blood, his blood! I would tear him limb from limb, the villain!ââ
Then Ermak, unable to survive the loss of his Zuleika, throws himself into the Irtisch, and the tale comes to an end.
Here, again, is another short extractâthis time written in a more comical vein, to make people laugh: âDo you know Ivan Prokofievitch Zheltopuzh? He is the man who took a piece out of Prokofi Ivanovitchâs leg. Ivanâs character is one of the rugged order, and therefore, one that is rather lacking in virtue. Yet he has a passionate relish for radishes and honey. Once he also possessed a friend named Pelagea Antonovna. Do you know Pelagea Antonovna? She is the woman who always puts on her petticoat wrong side outwards.â
What humour, Barbaraâwhat purest humour! We rocked with laughter when he read it aloud to us. Yes, that is the kind of man he is.
Possibly the passage is a trifle over-frolicsome, but at least it is harmless, and contains no freethought or liberal ideas. In passing, I may say that Rataziaev is not only a supreme writer, but also a man of upright lifeâwhich is more than can be said for most writers.
What, do you think, is an idea that sometimes enters my head? In fact, what if I myself were to write something? How if suddenly a book were to make its appearance in the world bearing the title of âThe Poetical Works of Makar Dievushkinâ? What THEN, my angel?
How should you view, should you receive, such an event? I may say of myself that never, after my book had appeared, should I have the hardihood to show my face on the Nevski Prospect; for would it not be too dreadful to hear every one saying, âHere comes the literateur and poet, Dievushkinâyes, it is Dievushkin himselfâ?
What, in such a case, should I do with my feet (for I may tell you that almost always my shoes are patched, or have just been resoled, and therefore look anything but becoming)? To think that the great writer Dievushkin should walk about in patched footgear! If a duchess or a countess should recognise me, what would she say, poor woman? Perhaps, though, she would not notice my shoes at all, since it may reasonably be supposed that countesses do not greatly occupy themselves with footgear, especially with the footgear of civil service officials (footgear may differ from footgear, it must be remembered). Besides, I should find that the countess had heard all about me, for my friends would have betrayed me to herâRataziaev among the first of them, seeing that he often goes to visit Countess V., and practically lives at her house. She is said to be a woman of great intellect and wit. An artful dog, that Rataziaev!
But enough of this. I write this sort of thing both to amuse myself and to divert your thoughts. Goodbye now, my angel. This is a long epistle that I am sending you, but the reason is that today I feel in good spirits after dining at Rataziaevâs. There I came across a novel which I hardly know how to describe to you.
Do not think the worse of me on that account, even though I bring you another book instead (for I certainly mean to bring one). The novel in question was one of Paul de Kockâs, and not a novel for you to read. No, no! Such a work is unfit for your eyes. In fact, it is said to have greatly offended the critics of St.
Petersburg. Also, I am sending you a pound of bonbonsâbought specially for yourself. Each time that you eat one, beloved, remember the sender. Only, do not bite the iced ones, but suck them gently, lest they make your teeth ache. Perhaps, too, you like comfits? Well, write and tell me if it is so. Goodbye, goodbye. Christ watch over you, my darling!âAlways your faithful friend,
MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN.
June 27th.
MY DEAREST MAKAR ALEXIEVITCHâThedora tells me that, should I wish, there are some people who will be glad to help me by obtaining me an excellent post as governess in a certain house.
What think you, my friend? Shall I go or not? Of course, I should then cease to be a burden to you, and the post appears to be a comfortable one. On the other hand, the idea of entering a strange house appals me. The people in it are landed gentry, and they will begin to ask me questions, and to busy themselves about me. What answers shall I then return? You see, I am now so unused to societyâso shy! I like to live in a corner to which I have long grown used. Yes, the place with which one is familiar is always the best. Even if for companion one has but sorrow, that place will still be the bestâŠ. God alone knows what duties the post will entail. Perhaps I shall merely
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