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

it. What sap! What foliage! What sunshine! How gay everything is, washed clean after the storm!... One would think that even the trees understand something, have feeling and enjoyment of life.... Is that out of the question—eh? What do you think?”

      “It’s very likely they do, uncle, in their own way, of course...”

      “Oh, yes, in their own way, of course... Marvellous, marvellous is the Creator! You must remember all this garden very well, Seryozha; how you used to race about and play in it when you were little! I remember, you know, when you were little,” he added, looking at me with an indescribable expression of love and happiness. “You were not allowed to go to the pond alone. But do you remember one evening dear Katya called you to her and began fondling you...You had been running in the garden just before, and were flushed; your hair was so fair and curly... She kept playing with it, and said: ‘It is a good thing that you have taken the little orphan to live with us!’ Do you remember?”

      “Faintly, uncle.”

      “It was evening, and you were both bathed in the glow of sunset, I was sitting in a corner smoking a pipe and watching you.... I drive into the town every month to her grave...” he added, dropping his voice, which quivered with suppressed tears. “I was just speaking to Nastya about it; she said we would go together...”

      My uncle paused, trying to control his emotion. At that instant Vidoplyasov came up to us.

      “Vidoplyasov!” said my uncle, starting. “Have you come from Foma Fomitch?”

      “No, I have come more on my own affairs.”

      “Oh, well, that’s capital. Now we shall hear about Korovkin. I wanted to inquire.... I told him to look after him—Korovkin I mean. What’s the matter, Vidoplyasov?”

      “I make bold to remind you,” said Vidoplyasov, “that yesterday you were graciously pleased to refer to my petition and to promise me your noble protection from the daily insults I receive.”

      “Surely you are not harping on your surname again?” cried my uncle in alarm.

      “What can I do? Hourly insults...”

      “Oh, Vidoplyasov, Vidoplyasov! What am I to do with you?” said my uncle in distress. “Why, what insults can you have to put up with? You will simply go out of your mind. You will end your days in a madhouse!”

      “I believe I am in my right mind...” Vidoplyasov was beginning.

      “Oh, of course, of course,” my uncle interposed. “I did not say that to offend you, my boy, but for your good. Why, what sort of insults do you complain of? I am ready to bet that it is only some nonsense.”

      “They won’t let me pass.”

      “Who interferes with you?”

      “They all do, and chiefly owing to Matryona. My life is a misery through her. It is well known that all discriminating people who have seen me from my childhood up have said that I am exactly like a foreigner, especially in the features of the face. Well, sir, now they won’t let me pass on account of it. As soon as I go by, they all shout all sorts of bad words after me; even the little children, who ought to be whipped, shout after me.... As I came along here now they shouted... I can’t stand it. Defend me, sir, with your protection!”

      “Oh, Vidoplyasov! Well, what did they shout? No doubt it was some foolishness that you ought not to notice.”

      “It would not be proper to repeat.”

      “Why, what was it?”

      “It’s a disgusting thing to say.”

      “Well, say it!”

      “Grishka the dandy has eaten the candy.”

      “Foo, what a man! I thought it was something serious! You should spit, and pass by.”

      “I did spit, they shouted all the more.”

      “But listen, uncle,” I said. “You see he complains that he can’t get on in this house; send him to Moscow for a time, to that calligrapher. You told me that he was trained by a calligrapher.”

      “Well, my dear, that man, too, came to a tragic end.”

      “Why, what happened to him?”

      “He had the misfortune,” Vidoplyasov replied, “to appropriate the property of another, for which in spite of his talent he was put in prison, where he is ruined irrevocably.”

      “Very well, Vidoplyasov, calm yourself now, and I will go into it all and set it right,” said my uncle, “I promise! Well, what news of Korovkin? Is he asleep?”

      “No, sir, his honour has just gone away. I came to tell you.”

      “What? Gone away! What do you mean? How could you let him go?” cried my uncle.

      “Through the kindness of my heart, sir, it was pitiful to see him, sir. When he came to himself and remembered all the proceedings, he struck himself on the forehead and shouted at the top of his voice...”

      “At the top of his voice!...”

      “It would be more respectful to express it, he gave utterance to many varied lamentations. He cried out: how could he present himself now to the fair sex? And then he added: ‘I am unworthy to be a man!’ and he kept talking so pitifully in choice language.”

      “A man of refined feeling! I told you, Sergey... But how could you let him go, Vidoplyasov, when I told you particularly to look after him? Oh, dear! oh, dear!”

      “It was through the pity of my heart. He begged me not to tell you. His cabman fed the horses and harnessed them. And for the sum lent him three days ago, he begged me to thank you most respectfully and say that he would send the money by one of the first posts.”

      “What money is that, uncle?”

      “He mentioned twenty-five silver roubles,” answered Vidoplyasov.

      “I lent it him at the station, my dear; he hadn’t enough with him. Of course he will send it by the first post... Oh, dear, how sorry I am! Shouldn’t we send someone to overtake him, Seryozha?”

      “No, uncle, better not send.”

      “I think so too. You see, Seryozha, I am not a philosopher of course, but I believe there is much more good in every man than appears on the surface. Korovkin now: he couldn’t face the shame of it... But let us go to Foma! We have lingered here a long time; he may be wounded by our ingratitude, and neglect... Let us go. Oh, Korovkin, Korovkin!”

      R

      My story is ended. The lovers were united, and their good genius in the form of Foma Fomitch held undisputed sway. I might at this point make very many befitting observations; but in reality all such observations are now completely superfluous. Such, anyway, is my opinion. I will instead say a few words about the subsequent fortunes of all the heroes of my tale. As is well known, no story is finished without this, and indeed it is prescribed by the rules.

      The wedding of the couple who had been so graciously “made happy” took place six weeks after the events I have described. It was a quiet family affair, without much display or superfluous guests. I was Nastenka’s best man, Mizintchikov was my uncle’s. There were some visitors, however. But the foremost, the leading figure, was of course Foma Fomitch. He was made much of; he was carried on their shoulders. But it somehow happened that on this one occasion he was overcome by champagne. A scene followed, with all the accompaniment of reproaches, lamentations and outcries. Foma ran off to his room, locked himself in, cried that he was held in contempt, that now “new people had come into the family and that he was therefore nothing, not more than a bit of rubbish that must be thrown away.” My uncle was in despair; Nastenka wept; Madame la Générale, as usual, had an attack of hysterics.... The wedding festival was like a funeral. And seven years of living like that with their benefactor, Foma

      Fomitch, fell to the lot of my poor uncle and