Fyodor Dostoyevsky: Complete Novels & Stories (Wisehouse Classics). Fyodor Dostoyevsky

certainly was looking on with distress at the scolding of his master.

      “I want to entertain you, too, with a performance, Pavel Semyonitch. Come here, you scarecrow, come here! Condescend to approach us a little nearer, Gavrila Ignatitch! Here you see, Pavel Semyonitch, is Gavrila; as a punishment for rudeness he is studying the French dialect. Like Orpheus, I soften the manners of these parts not only with songs but with the French dialect. Come, Mossoo Frenchy—he can’t bear to be called Mossoo—do you know your lesson?”

      “I have learnt it,” said Gavrila, hanging his head.

      “Well, Parlay—voo—fransay?”

      “Vee, moossyu, zhe—le—pari—on—peu...”

      I don’t know whether it was Gavrila’s mournful face as he uttered the French phrase, or whether they were all aware of Foma’s desire that they should laugh, but anyway they all burst into a roar of laughter as soon as Gavrila opened his lips. Even Madame la Générale deigned to be amused. Anfisa Petrovna, sinking back on the sofa, shrieked, hiding her face behind her fan. What seemed most ludicrous was that Gavrila, seeing what his examination was being turned into, could not restrain himself from spitting and commenting reproachfully: “To think of having lived to such disgrace in my old age!”

      Foma Fomitch was startled.

      “What? What did you say? So you think fit to be rude?”

      “No, Foma Fomitch,” Gavrila replied with dignity. “My words were no rudeness, and it’s not for me, a serf, to be rude to you, a gentleman born. But every man bears the image of God upon him, His image and semblance. I am sixty-three years old. My father remembers Pugatchev, the monster, and my grandfather helped his master, Matvey Nikititch—God grant him the kingdom of heaven—to hang Pugatchev on an aspen tree, for which my father was honoured beyond all others by our late master, Afanasy Matveyitch: he was his valet, and ended his life as butler. As for me, Foma Fomitch, sir, though I am my master’s bondman, I have never known such a shame done me from my birth upward till now.”

      And at the last word Gavrila spread out his hands and hung his head. My uncle was watching him uneasily.

      “Come, that’s enough, Gavrila,” he cried. “No need to say more, that’s enough!”

      “Never mind, never mind,” said Foma, turning a little pale and giving a forced smile. “Let him speak, these are the fruits of your...”

      “I will tell you everything,” said Gavrila with extraordinary fervour, “I will conceal nothing! You may bind the hands, but there is no binding the tongue. Though I may seem beside you, Foma Fomitch, a low man, in fact a slave, yet I can feel insulted! Service and obedience I am always bound to give you, because I am born a slave and must do my duty in fear and trembling. You sit writing a book, it’s my duty not to let you be interrupted—that is my real duty. Any service that is needed I am pleased to do. But in my old age to bleat in some outlandish way and be put to shame before folk! Why, I can’t go into the servants’ room now: ‘You are a Frenchy!’ they say, ‘a Frenchy!’ No, Foma Fomitch, sir, it’s not only a fool like me, but all good folks have begun to say the same: that you have become now a wicked man and that our master is nothing but a little child before you, that though you are a gentleman by birth and a general’s son, and yourself may be near being a general too, yet you are as wicked as a real fury must be.”

      Gavrila had finished. I was beside myself with delight. Foma Fomitch sat pale with rage in the midst of the general discomfiture and seemed unable to recover from Gavrila’s sudden attack upon him; he seemed at that moment to be deliberating how far his wrath should carry him. At last the outburst followed.

      “What, he dares to be rude to me—me! but this is mutiny!” shrieked Foma, and he leapt up from his chair.

      Madame la Générale followed his example, clasping her hands. There was a general commotion, my uncle rushed to turn the culprit out.

      “Put him in fetters, put him in fetters!” cried Madame la Générale. “Take him to the town at once and send him for a soldier, Yegorushka, or you shall not have my blessing. Fix the fetters on him at once, and send him for a soldier.”

      “What!” cried Foma. “Slave! Lout! Hamlet! He dares to be rude to me! He, he, a rag to wipe my boots! He dares to call me a fury!”

      I slipped forward with unusual determination.

      “I must confess that in this affair I am completely of Gavrila’s opinion,” I said, looking Foma Fomitch straight in the face and trembling with excitement.

      He was so taken aback by this onslaught that for the first minute he seemed unable to believe his ears.

      “What’s this now?” he cried out at last, pouncing upon me in a frenzy, and fixing his little bloodshot eyes upon me. “Why, who are you?”

      “Foma Fomitch...” my uncle, utterly distracted, began, “this is Seryozha, my nephew...”

      “The learned gentleman!” yelled Foma. “So he’s the learned gentleman! Liberté—égalité—fraternité. Journal des Débats! No, my friend, you won’t take me in! I am not such a fool. This isn’t Petersburg, you won’t impose upon us. And I spit on your des Débats. You have your des Débats, but to us that’s all fiddlesticks, young man! Learned! You know as much as I have forgotten seven times over. So much for your learning!”

      If they had not held him back I believe he would have fallen upon me with his fists.

      “Why, he is drunk,” I said, looking about me in bewilderment.

      “Who, I?” cried Foma, in a voice unlike his own.

      “Yes, you!”

      “Drunk?”

      “Yes, drunk.”

      This was more than Foma could endure. He uttered a screech as though he were being murdered and rushed out of the room. Madame la Générale seemed desirous of falling into a swoon, but reflected that it would be better to run after Foma Fomitch. She was followed by all the others, and last of all by my uncle. When I recovered myself and looked round I saw in the room no one but Yezhevikin. He was smiling and rubbing his hands.

      “You promised just now to tell me about the Jesuits,” he said in an insinuating voice.

      “What?” I asked, not understanding what he was talking about.

      “About the Jesuits, you promised just now to tell me... some little anecdote....”

      I ran out into the veranda and from there into the garden. My head was going round...

Chapter 8 — A Declaration of Love

      I wandered about the garden for about a quarter of an hour, feeling irritated and extremely dissatisfied with myself, and deliberating what I should do now. The sun was setting. Suddenly at a turning into a dark avenue I met Nastenka face to face. She had tears in her eyes, in her hand a handkerchief with which she was wiping them.

      “I was looking for you,” she said.

      “And I for you,” I answered. “Tell me, am I in a madhouse?”

      “Certainly not in a madhouse,” she answered resentfully, with an intent glance at me.

      “Well, if that’s so, what’s the meaning of it all? For Christ’s sake give me some advice. Where has my uncle gone now? Can I go to him? I am very glad that I have met you; perhaps you will be able to suggest what I ought to do.”

      “No, better not go to him. I have just come away from them.”

      “Why, where are they?”

      “Who knows? Perhaps by now they have run into the kitchen garden again,” she said irritably.

      “Into the kitchen garden!”

      “Why, last week, Foma Fomitch began shouting that he wouldn’t stay in