THE COMPLETE WORKS OF FYODOR DOSTOYEVSKY. Федор Достоевский
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to mutter: ‘But if I had been commander, I’d have vowed to eat meat only, Drinking good red wine alone.’”
“There! Didn’t I tell you so?” cried my uncle, extremely delighted. “Only one sensible man was found in the whole army, and he was some sort of a chaplain. And what is that, Sergey: a captain among them, or what?”
“A monk, an ecclesiastical person, uncle.”
“Oh, yes, yes. Chaplain! I know, I remember. I have read of it in Radcliffe’s novels. They have all sorts of orders, don’t they… . Benedictines, I believe? … There are Benedictines, aren’t there?”
“Yes, uncle.”
“H’m! … I thought so. Well, Ilyusha, what next? Excellent! capital!”
“And Don Pedro overhearing, With loud laughter gave the order: ‘Fetch a sheep and give it to him! He has jested gallantly!’”
‘What a time to laugh! What a fool! Even he saw it was funny at last! A sheep! So they had sheep; why did he not eat some himself! Well, Ilyusha, go on. Excellent! capital! Extraordinarily cutting!”
“But that’s the end, papa!”
“Oh, the end. Indeed there wasn’t much left to be done — was there, Sergey? Capital, Ilyusha! Wonderfully nice. Kiss me, darling. Ah, my precious! Who was it thought of it: you, Sasha?”
“No, it was Nastenka. We read it the other day. She read it and said: ‘What ridiculous verses! It will soon be Ilyusha’s nameday, let us make him learn them and recite them. It will make them laugh!”
“Oh, it was Nastenka? Well, thank you, thank you,” my uncle muttered, suddenly flushing like a child. “Kiss me again, Ilyusha. You kiss me too, you rogue,” he said, embracing Sashenka and looking into her face with feeling. “You wait a bit, Sashenka, it will be your nameday soon,” he added, as though he did not know what to say to express his pleasure.
I turned to Nastenka and asked whose verses they were.
“Yes, yes, whose are the versed “ my uncle hurriedly chimed in. “It must have been a clever poet who wrote them, mustn’t it, Foma?”
“H’m …” Foma grunted to himself.
A biting sarcastic smile had not lett his face during the whole time of the recitation of the verses.
“I have really forgotten,” said Nastenka, looking timidly at Foma Fomitch.
“It’s Mr. Kuzma Prutkov wrote it, papa; it was published in the Contemporary/’ Sashenka broke in.
“Ku/ma Prutkov! I don’t know his name,” said my uncle. “Pushkin I know! … But one ran see he a gifted poet — isn’t he, Sergey? And what’s more, a man ot refined qualities, that’s as clear as twice two! Perhaps, indeed, he is an officer. … I approve of him. And the Contemporary is a first-rate magazine. We certainly must take it in if poets like that are among the contributors. … I like poets! They are fine fellows! They picture everything in vcr^e Do you know, Sergey, I met a literary man at your rooms in Petersburg. He had rather a peculiar nose, too … really! … What did you say, Foma?”
Foma Fomitch, who was getting more and more worked up, gave a loud snigger.
“No, I said nothing . . ,” he said, as though hardly able to suppress his laughter. “Co on, Yegor Ilyitch, go on! I will say my word later… . Stepan Alexycvitch is delighted to hear how you made the acquaintance of literary men in Petersburg.”
Stepan Alexyevitch, who had been sitting apart all the time lost in thought, suddenly raised his head, reddened, and turned in his chair with exasperation.
“Don’t you provoke me, Foma, but leave me in peace,” he said, looking wrathfully at Foma, with his little bloodshot eyes. “What is your literature to me? May God only give me good health,” he muttered to himself, “and plague take them all… and their authors too… . Voltairians, that’s what they are!”
“Authors are Voltairians?” said Yezhevikin immediately at his side. “Perfectly true what you have been pleased to remark, Stepan Alexyevitch. Valentin Ignatyitch was pleased to express the same sentiments the other day. He actually called me a Voltairian, upon my soul he did! And yet, as you all know, I have written very little so far. … If a bowl of milk goes sour — it’s all Voltaire’s fault! That’s how it is with everything here.”
“Well, no,” observed my uncle with dignity, “that’s an error, you know! Voltaire was nothing but a witty writer; he laughed at superstitions; and he never was a Voltairian! It was his enemies spread that rumour about him. Why were they all against him, really, poor fellow? …”
Again the malignant snigger of Foma Fomitch was audible. My uncle looked at him uneasily and was perceptibly embarrassed.
“Yes, Foma, I am thinking about the magazine, you see,” he said in confusion, trying to put himself right somehow. “You were perfectly right, my dear Foma, when you said the other day that we ought to subscribe to one. I think we ought to, myself. H’m … after all, they do assist in the diffusion of enlightenment; one would be a very poor patriot if one did not support them. Wouldn’t one, Sergey. H’m … Yes … The Contemporary, for instance. But, do you know, Seryozha, the most instruction, to my thinking, is to be found in that thick magazine — what’s its name? — in a yellow cover …”
“Notes of the Fatherland, papa.”
“Oh, yes, Notes of the Fatherland, and a capital title, Sergey, isn’t it? It is, so to say, the whole Fatherland sitting writing notes. … A very fine object. A most edifying magazine. And what a thick one! What a job to publish such an omnibus! And the information in it almost makes one’s eyes start out of one’s head. I came in the other day, the volume was lying here, I took it up and from curiosity opened it and reeled off three pages at a go. It made me simply gape, my dear! And, you know, there is information about everything; what is meant, for instance, by a broom, a spade, a ladle, an ovenrake. To my thinking, a broom is a broom and an ovenrake an ovenrake!
No, my boy, wait a bit. According to the learned, an ovenrako turns out not an ovenrake, but an emblem or something mythological; I don’t remember exactly, but something of the sort… . So that’s how it is! They have gone into everything!”
I don’t know what precisely Foma was preparing to do after this fresh outburst from my uncle, but at that moment Gavrila appeared and stood with bowed head in the doorway.
Foma Fomitch glanced at him significantly.
“Ready, Gavrila?” he asked in a faint but resolute voice.
“Yes, sir,” Gavrila answered mournfully, and heaved a sigh.
“And have you put my bundle on the cart?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, then, I am ready too!” said Foma, and he deliLxr-ately go up from his easy-chair. My uncle looked at him in amazement. Madame la Générale jumped up from her seat ana looked about her uneasily.
“Allow me, Colonel,” Foma began with dignity, “to ask you to leave for a moment the interesting subject of literary ovenrakes; you can continue it after I am gone. As I am taking leave of you for ever, I should like to say a few last words to you ——
Every listener was spellbound with alarm and amazement.
“Foma! Foma! but what is the matter with you? Where are you going?” my uncle cried at last.
“I am about to leave your house, Colonel,” Foma brought out in a perfectly composed voice. “I have made up my mind to go where fortune takes me, and so I have hired at my own expense a humble peasant’s cart. My bundle is lying in it already, it is of no great dimensions’ a few favourite books, two changes of linen — that is all! I am a poor man, Yegor Ilyitch, but nothing in the world would induce me now to take your gold, which I refused even yesterday!”
“But for God’s