Complete Works of Fyodor Dostoyevsky (94 page)

“Ah, my boy, there are people in the world who know everything,” he said to me once, his eyes sparkling with enthusiasm. “One sits among them, listens, and one knows one understands nothing of it all, and yet one loves it. And why? Because it is in the cause of reform, of enlightenment, of the general welfare! That I do understand. Here I now travel by train, and my Ilyusha, perhaps, may fly through the air. . . . And then trade, manufactures — those channels, so to say . . . that is, I mean, turn it which way you will, it’s of service. . . . It is of service, isn’t it?”

But to return to our meeting.

“But wait a bit, wait a bit, my dear,” lie began, speaking rapidly and rubbing his hands, “you will see a man! A rare man, I tell you, a learned man, a man of science; ‘he will survive his century.’ It’s a good saying, isn’t it, ‘will survive his century’? Foma explained it to me. . . . Wait a little, I will introduce you to him.”

“Are you speaking of Foma Fomitch, uncle?”

“No, no, my dear, I was speaking of Korovkin, though Foma too, he too . . . but I am simply talking of Korovkin just now,” he added, for some unknown reason turning crimson, and seeming embarrassed as soon as Foma’s name was mentioned.

“What sciences is he studying, uncle?”

“Science, my boy, science, science in general. I can’t tell you which exactly, I only know that it is science. How he speaks about railways! And, you know,” my uncle added in a half whisper, screwing up his right eye significantly, “just a little of the free-thinker. I noticed it, especially when he was speaking of marriage and the family . . . it’s a pity I did not understand much of it myself (there was no time), I would have told you all about it in detail. And he is a man of the noblest qualities, too! I have invited him to visit me. I am expecting him from hour to hour.”

Meanwhile the peasants were gazing at me with round eyes and open mouths as though at some marvel.

“Listen, uncle,” I interrupted him; “I believe I am hindering the peasants. No doubt they have come about something urgent. What do they want? I must own I suspect something, and I should be very glad to hear. ...”

Uncle suddenly seemed nervous and flustered.

“Oh, yes! I had forgotten. Here, you see . . . what is one to do with them? They have got a notion — and I should very much like to know who first started it — they have got a notion, that I am giving them away together with the whole of Kapitonovko — do you remember Kapitonovko? We used to drive out there in the evenings with dear Katya — the whole of Kapitonovko with the sixty-eight souls in it to Foma Fomitch. ‘Wo don’t want to leave you,’ they say, and that is all about it.”

“So it is not true, uncle, you are not giving him Kapitonovko,” I cried, almost rapturously.

“I never thought of it, it never entered my head! And from whom did you hear it? Once one drops a word, it is all over the place, And why do they so dislike Foma? Wait a little, Sergey, I will introduce you to him,” he added, glancing at me timidly, as though he were aware in me, too, of hostility towards Foma Fomitch. “He is a wonderful man, my boy.”

“We want no one but you, no one!” the peasants suddenly wailed in chorus. “You are our father, we are your children!”

“Listen, uncle,” I said. “I have not seen Foma Fomitch yet, but . . . you see ... I have heard something. I must confess that I met Mr. Bahtcheyev to-day. However, I have my own idea on that subject. Anyway, uncle, finish with the peasants and let them go, and let us talk by ourselves without witnesses. I must own, that’s what I have come for. ...”

“To be sure, to be sure,” my uncle assented; “to be sure. We’ll dismiss the peasants and then we can have a talk, you know, a friendly, affectionate, thorough talk. Come,” he went on, speaking rapidly and addressing the peasants, “you can go now, my friends. And for the future come to me whenever there is need; straight to me, and come at any time.”

“You are our father, we are your children! Do not give us to Foma Fomitch for our undoing! All we, poor people, are beseeching you!” the peasants shouted once more.

“See what fools! But I am not giving you away, I tell you.”

“Or he’ll never leave off teaching us, your honour. He does nothing but teach the fellows here, so they say.”

“Why, you don’t mean to say he is teaching you French?” I cried, almost in alarm.

“No, sir, so far God has had mercy on us!” answered one of the peasants, probably a great talker, a red-haired man with a huge bald patch on the back of his head, with a long, scanty, wedge-shaped beard, which moved as he talked as though it were a separate individual. “No, sir, so far God has had mercy on us.”

“But what does he teach you?”

“Well, your honour, what he teaches us, in a manner of speaking, is buying a gold casket to keep a brass farthing in.”

“How do you mean, a brass farthing?”

“Seryozha, you are mistaken, it’s a slander!” cried my uncle, turning crimson and looking terribly embarrassed. “The fools have misunderstood what was said to them. He merely . . . there was nothing about a brass farthing. There is no need for you to understand everything, and shout at the top of your voice,” my uncle continued, addressing the peasant reproachfully. “One wants to do you good and you don’t understand, and make an uproar!”

“Upon my word, uncle, teaching them French?”

“That’s for the sake of pronunciation, Seryozha, simply for the pronunciation,” said my uncle in an imploring voice. “He said himself that it was for the sake of the pronunciation. . . . Besides, something special happened in connection with this, which you know nothing about and so you cannot judge. You must investigate first and then blame. ... It is easy to find fault!”

“But what are you about?” I shouted, turning impetuously to the peasants again. “You ought to speak straight out. You should say, This won’t do, Foma Fomitch, this is how it ought to be!’ You have got a tongue, haven’t you?”

“Where is the mouse who will bell the cat, your honour? ‘I am teaching you, clodhoppers, cleanliness and order,’ he says. ‘Why is your shirt not clean?’ Why, one is always in a sweat, that’s why it isn’t clean! One can’t change every day. Cleanliness won’t save you and dirt won’t kill you.”

“And look here, the other day he came to the threshing floor,” began another peasant, a tall lean fellow all in patches and wearing wretched bark shoes, apparently one of those men who are always discontented about something and always have some vicious venomous word ready in reserve. Till then he had been hidden behind the backs of the other peasants, had been listening in gloomy silence, and had kept all the time on his face an ambiguous, bitterly subtle smile. “He came to the threshing floor. ‘Do you know, he said, ‘how many miles it is to the sun?”Why, who can tell? Such learning is not for us but for the gentry.”No, says he; ‘you are a fool, a lout, you don’t understand what is good for you; but I,’ said he, ‘am an astronomer! I know all God’s planets.’”

“Well, and did he tell you how many miles it is to the sun?” my uncle put in, suddenly reviving and winking gaily at me, as though to say, “See what’s coming!”

“Yes, he did tell us how many,” the peasant answered reluctantly, not expecting such a question.

“Well, how many did he say, how many exactly?”

“Your honour must know best, we live in darkness.”

“Oh, I know, my boy, but do you remember?”

“Why, he said it would be so many hundreds or thousands, it was a big number, he said. More than you could carry in three cartloads.”

“Try and remember, brother! I dare say you thought it would be about a mile, that you could reach up to it with your hand. No, my boy; you see, the earth is like a round ball, do you understand?” my uncle went on, describing a sphere in the air with his hands.

The peasant smiled bitterly.

“Yes, like a ball, it hangs in the air of itself and moves round the sun. And the sun stands still, it only seems to you that it moves. There’s a queer thing! And the man who discovered this was Captain Cook, a navigator . . . devil only knows who did discover it,” he added in a half whisper, turning to me. “I know nothing about it myself, my boy. ... Do you know how far it is to the sun?”

“I do, uncle,” I answered, looking with surprise at all this scene. “But this is what I think: of course ignorance means slovenliness; but on the other hand ... to teach peasants astronomy ...”

“Just so, just so, slovenliness,” my uncle assented, delighted with my expression, which struck him as extremely apt. “A noble thought! Slovenliness precisely! That is what I have always said . . . that is, I never said so, but I felt it. Do you hear?” he cried to the peasants. “Ignorance is as bad as slovenliness, it’s as bad as dirt. That’s why Foma wanted to teach you. He wanted to teach you something good — that was all right. That’s as good as serving one’s country — it’s as good as any official rank. So you see what science is! Well, that’s enough, that’s enough, my friends. Go, in God’s name; and I am glad, glad. . . . Don’t worry yourselves, I won’t forsake you.”

“Protect us, father!”

“Let us breathe freely!”

And the peasants plumped down at his feet.

“Come, come, that’s nonsense. Bow down to God and your Tsar, and not to me. . . . Come, go along, behave well, be deserving . . and all that. You know,” he said, turning suddenly to me as soon as the peasants had gone away, and beaming with pleasure, “the peasant loves a kind word, and a little present would do no harm. Shall I give them something, eh? What do you think? In honour of your arrival. . . . Shall I or not?”

“But you are a kind of Frol Silin, uncle, a benevolent person, I see.”

“Oh, one can’t help it, my boy, one can’t help it; that’s nothing. I have been meaning to give them a present for a long time,” he said, as though excusing himself. “And as for your thinking it funny of me to give the peasants a lesson in science, I simply did that, my boy, in delight at seeing you, Seryozha. I simply wanted the peasants to hear how many miles it was to the sun and gape in wonder. It’s amusing to see them gape, my dear. . . . One seems to rejoice over them. Only, my boy, don’t speak in the drawing-room of my having had an interview with the peasants, you know. I met them behind the stables on purpose that we should not be seen. It was impossible to have it there, my boy: it is a delicate business, and indeed they came in secret themselves. I did it more for their sake. . . .”

“Well, here I have come, uncle,” I began, changing the conversation and anxious to get to the chief point as quickly as possible. “I must own your letter so surprised me that I . . .”

“My dear, not a word of that,” my uncle interrupted, as though in alarm, positively dropping his voice. “Afterwards, afterwards, all that shall be explained. I have, perhaps, acted wrongly towards you, very wrongly, perhaps. ...”

“Acted wrongly towards me, uncle?”

“Afterwards, afterwards, my dear, afterwards! It shall all be explained. But what a fine fellow you have grown! My dear boy! How eager I have been to see you! I wanted to pour out my heart, so to speak . . . you are clever, you are my only hope . . . you and Korovkin. I must mention to you that they are all angry with you here. Mind, be careful, don’t be rash.”

“Angry with me?” I asked, looking at uncle in wonder, unable to understand how I could have angered people with whom I was as yet unacquainted. “Angry with me?”

“Yes, with you, my boy. It can’t be helped! Foma Fomitch is a little . . . and . . . well . . . mother following his example. Be careful, respectful, don’t contradict. The great thing is to be respectful. ...”

“To Foma Fomitch, do you mean, uncle?”

“It can’t be helped, my dear; you see, I don’t defend him. Certainly he has his faults, perhaps, and especially just now, at this particular moment. . . . Ah, Seryozha, dear, how it all worries me. And if only it could be settled comfortably, if only we could all be satisfied and happy! . . . But who has not faults? We are not perfect ourselves, are we?”

“Upon my word, uncle! Consider what he is doing. . . .”

“Oh, my dear! It’s all trivial nonsense, nothing more! Here, for instance, let me tell you, he is angry with me, and what for, do you suppose? . . . Though perhaps it’s my own fault. ... I’d better tell you afterwards. ...”

“But, do you know, uncle, I have formed an idea of my own about it,” I interrupted, in haste to give expression to my theory. Indeed, we both seemed nervous and hurried. “In the first place, he has been a buffoon; that has mortified him, rankled, outraged his ideal; and that has made his character embittered, morbid, resentful, so to say, against all humanity. . . . But if one could reconcile him with mankind, if one could bring him back to himself ...”

“Just so, just so,” cried my uncle, delighted; “that’s just it. A generous idea! And in fact it would be shameful, ungenerous of us to blame him! Just so! ... Oh, my dear, you understand me; you have brought me comfort! If only things could be set straight, somehow! Do you know, I am afraid to show myself. Here you have come, and I shall certainly catch it from them!’

“Uncle, if that is how it is . . .”I began, disconcerted by this confession.

“No-no-no I For nothing in the world,” he cried, clutching my hands. “You are my guest and I wish it!”

“Uncle, tell me at once,” I began insistently, “why did you send for me? What do you expect of me, and, above all, in what way have you been to blame towards me?”

“My dear, don’t ask. Afterwards, afterwards; all that shall be explained afterwards. I have been very much to blame, perhaps, but I wanted to act like an honest man, and . . . and . . . you shall marry her! You will marry her, if there is one grain of gentlemanly feeling in you,” he added, flushing all over with some sudden feeling and warmly and enthusiastically pressing my hand. “But enough, not another word, you will soon see for yourself. It will depend on you. . . . The great thing is that you should be liked, that you should make a good impression. Above all — don’t be nervous.”

“Come, listen, uncle. Whom have you got there? I must own I have been so little in society, that ...”

“That you are rather frightened,” put in my uncle, smiling. “Oh, that’s no matter. Cheer up, they are all our own people I The great thing is to be bold and not afraid. I keep feeling anxious about you. Whom have we got there, you ask? Yes, who is there. ... In the first place, my mother,” he began hurriedly. “Do you remember mamma or not? The most kind-hearted, generous woman, no airs about her — that one can say; a little of the old school, perhaps, but that’s all to the good. To be sure she sometimes takes fancies into her head, you know, will say one thing and another; she is vexed with me now, but it is my own fault, I know it is my own fault. And the fact is — you know she is what is called a grande dame, a general’s lady . . . her husband was a most excellent man. To begin with, he was a general, a most cultivated man; he left no property, but he was covered with wounds — he was deserving of respect, in fact. Then there’s Miss Perepelitsyn; well, she ... I don’t know ... of late she has been rather . . . her character is so . . . but one mustn’t find fault with everyone. There, never mind her . . . you mustn’t imagine she is in a menial position, she’s a major’s daughter herself, my boy, she is mother’s confidante and favourite, my dear! Then there is my sister Praskovya Ilyinitchna. Well, there is no need to say much about her, she is simple and good-natured, a bit fussy, but what a heart! The heart is the great thing. Though she is middle-aged, yet, do you know, I really believe that queer fellow Bahtcheyev is making up to her. He wants to make a match of it. But mind you don’t say a word, it is a secret! Well, and who else is there? I won’t tell you about the children, you will see for yourself. It’s Ilyusha’s nameday to-morrow. . . . Why there, I was almost forgetting, we have had staying with us for the last month Ivan Ivanitch Mizintchikov, your second cousin, I believe; yes, of course, he is your second cousin! He has lately given up his commission; he was a lieutenant in the Hussars; still a young man. A noble soul! But, you know, he has got through his money. I really can’t think how he managed to get rid of it. Though indeed he had next to nothing, but anyway he got through it and ran into debt. . . . Now he is staying with me. I didn’t know him at all till lately; he came and introduced himself. He is a dear fellow, good-humoured, quiet and respectful. No one gets a word out of him. He is always silent. Foma calls him in jest the ‘silent stranger’ — he doesn’t mind; he isn’t vexed. Foma’s satisfied, he says Ivan’s not very bright. And Ivan never contradicts him, but always falls in with everything he says. H’m! he seems so crushed . . . but there, God bless him, you will see for yourself. There are guests from the town, Pavel Semyonitch Obnoskin and his mother; he’s young but a man of superior mind, something mature, steadfast, you know . . . only I don’t know how to express it; and what’s more, of the highest principles; strict morals. And lastly there is staying with us, you know, a lady called Tatyana Ivanovna; she, too, may be a distant relation. You don’t know her. She is not quite young, that one mu^t own, but . . . she is not without attractions: she is rich enough to buy Stepantchikovo twice over, she has only lately come into her money, and has had a wretched time of it till now. Please, Seryozha, my boy, be careful; she is such a nervous invalid . . . something phan-tasmagorial in her character, you know. Well, you are a gentleman, you will understand; she has had troubles, you know, one has to be doubly careful with a person who has had troubles! But you mustn’t imagine anything, you know. Of course she has her weaknesses; sometimes she is in such a hurry, she speaks so fast, that she says the wrong thing. Not that she lies, don’t imagine that ... it all comes, my boy, from a pure and noble heart, so to say. I mean, even if she does say something false, it’s simply from excess of noble-heartedness, so to say — do you understand?”