Rataziaev has now promised to give me something really literary to read; so you shall soon have your book, my darling. He is a man who reflects; he is a clever fellow, as well as himself a writer—such a writer! His pen glides1 along with ease, and in such a style (even when he is writing the most ordinary, the most insignificant2 of articles) that I have often remarked upon the fact, both to Phaldoni and to Theresa. Often, too, I go to spend an evening with him. He reads aloud to us until five o’clock in the morning, and we listen to him. It is a revelation of things rather than a reading. It is charming, it is like a bouquet3 of flowers—there is a bouquet of flowers in every line of each page. Besides, he is such an approachable, courteous4, kind-hearted fellow! What am I compared with him? Why, nothing, simply nothing! He is a man of reputation, whereas I—well, I do not exist at all. Yet he condescends5 to my level. At this very moment I am copying out a document for him. But you must not think that he finds any DIFFICULTY in condescending6 to me, who am only a copyist. No, you must not believe the base gossip that you may hear. I do copying work for him simply in order to please myself, as well as that he may notice me—a thing that always gives me pleasure. I appreciate the delicacy7 of his position. He is a good—a very good—man, and an unapproachable writer.
What a splendid thing is literature, Barbara—what 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 Rataziaev’s works. And so well written down, too! Literature is a sort of picture—a 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 interpolate—and 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 man’s estate but not man’s understanding.... What do I do in my spare time? I sleep like a fool, though I would far rather be occupied with something else—say, with eating or writing, since the one is useful to oneself, and the other is beneficial to one’s fellows. You should see how much money these fellows contrive8 to save! How much, for instance, does not Rataziaev lay by? A few days’ 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 asking—what 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. “For,” said he, “they will soon offer me seven thousand,” and kept to his point, for he is a man of some determination.
Suppose, now, that I were to give you an extract from “Passion in Italy” (as another work of his is called). Read this, dearest Barbara, and judge for yourself:
“Vladimir started, for in his veins9 the lust11 of passion had welled until it had reached boiling point.
“‘Countess,’ he cried, ‘do you know how terrible is this adoration12 of mine, how infinite this madness? No! My fancies have not deceived me—I love you ecstatically, diabolically13, as a madman might! All the blood that is in your husband’s body could never quench14 the furious, surging rapture15 that is in my soul! No puny16 obstacle could thwart17 the all-destroying, infernal flame which is eating into my exhausted18 breast! Oh Zinaida, my Zinaida!’
“‘My Zinaida!’ cried the enraptured20 Smileski once more.
“His 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.
“‘Vladimir!’ again she whispered in her intoxication21, while her bosom heaved, her cheeks glowed, and her eyes flashed fire.
“‘How now, my love?’ said he. ‘Surely it is for some welcome guest beyond the common that you have had the samovar [Tea-urn.] thus prepared?’ And he smote25 her lightly on the cheek.”
What think you of THAT, Barbara? True, it is a little too outspoken—there can be no doubt of that; yet how grand it is, how splendid! With your permission I will also quote you an extract from Rataziaev’s story, Ermak and Zuleika:
“‘You love me, Zuleika? Say again that you love me, you love me!’
“‘I DO love you, Ermak,’ whispered Zuleika.
“‘Then 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! ‘Tis for this that you have led me hither, my guiding star—‘tis 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, demon26 or monster of Hell, shall bid me nay27! Oh, if men would but understand the mysterious passions of her tender heart, and see the poem which lurks28 in each of her little tears! Suffer me to dry those tears with my kisses! Suffer me to drink of those heavenly drops, Oh being who art not of this earth!’
“‘Ermak,’ said Zuleika, ‘the world is cruel, and men are unjust. But LET them drive us from their midst—let them judge us, my beloved Ermak! What has a poor maiden29 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.’
“‘Is that so? Then shall the sword of the Cossacks sing and whistle over their heads!’ cried Ermak with a furious look in his eyes.”
What must Ermak have felt when he learnt that his Zuleika had been murdered, Barbara?—that, taking advantages of the cover of night, the blind old Kouchoum had, in Ermak’s absence, broken into the latter’s tent, and stabbed his own daughter in mistake for the man who had robbed him of sceptre and crown?
“‘Oh that I had a stone whereon to whet30 my sword!’ cried Ermak in the madness of his wrath31 as he strove to sharpen his steel blade upon the enchanted32 rock. ‘I would have his blood, his blood! I would tear him limb from limb, the villain33!’”
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 extract—this time written in a more comical vein10, to make people laugh:
“Do you know Ivan Prokofievitch Zheltopuzh? He is the man who took a piece out of Prokofi Ivanovitch’s leg. Ivan’s character is one of the rugged34 order, and therefore, one that is rather lacking in virtue35. Yet he has a passionate36 relish37 for radishes and honey. Once he also possessed38 a friend named Pelagea Antonovna. Do you know Pelagea Antonovna? She is the woman who always puts on her petticoat wrong side outwards39.”
What humour, Barbara—what 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 supreme40 writer, but also a man of upright life—which 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 “The Poetical41 Works of Makar Dievushkin”? 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 Prospect42; for would it not be too dreadful to hear every one saying, “Here comes the literateur and poet, Dievushkin—yes, it is Dievushkin himself.” 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 her—Rataziaev 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 Rataziaev’s. 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 Kock’s, 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 bonbons—bought specially43 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!—Always your faithful friend,
MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN.
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1
glides
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| n.滑行( glide的名词复数 )；滑音；音渡；过渡音v.滑动( glide的第三人称单数 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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2
insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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3
bouquet
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| n.花束，酒香 | |
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4
courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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5
condescends
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| 屈尊，俯就( condescend的第三人称单数 )； 故意表示和蔼可亲 | |
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6
condescending
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| adj.谦逊的,故意屈尊的 | |
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7
delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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8
contrive
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| vt.谋划，策划；设法做到；设计，想出 | |
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9
veins
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| n.纹理；矿脉( vein的名词复数 )；静脉；叶脉；纹理 | |
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10
vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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11
lust
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| n.性(淫)欲；渴(欲)望；vi.对…有强烈的欲望 | |
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12
adoration
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| n.爱慕，崇拜 | |
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13
diabolically
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14
quench
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| vt.熄灭，扑灭；压制 | |
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15
rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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16
puny
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| adj.微不足道的，弱小的 | |
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17
thwart
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| v.阻挠，妨碍，反对；adj.横(断的) | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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19
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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20
enraptured
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| v.使狂喜( enrapture的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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21
intoxication
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| n.wild excitement;drunkenness；poisoning | |
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22
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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23
consummated
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| v.使结束( consummate的过去式和过去分词 )；使完美；完婚；（婚礼后的）圆房 | |
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24
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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25
smote
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| v.猛打，重击，打击( smite的过去式 ) | |
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demon
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| n.魔鬼，恶魔 | |
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27
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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28
lurks
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| n.潜在，潜伏；（lurk的复数形式）vi.潜伏，埋伏（lurk的第三人称单数形式） | |
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29
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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30
whet
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| v.磨快，刺激 | |
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31
wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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32
enchanted
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| adj. 被施魔法的，陶醉的，入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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33
villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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34
rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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35
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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36
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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37
relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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38
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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39
outwards
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| adj.外面的，公开的，向外的；adv.向外；n.外形 | |
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40
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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41
poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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42
prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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43
specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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