Chapter 195.docx

Chapter 195.docx

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Chapter195

Chapter19

THEREwashardlyanyworkinthemarket-squareduringthewinter,andinsteadIhadinnumerabletrivialdutiestoperforminthehouse.Theyswallowedupthewholeday,buttheeveningswereleftfree.OncemoreIreadtothehouseholdnovelswhichwereunpalatabletome,fromthe“Neva”

andthe“MoscowGazette”;butatnightIoccupiedmyselfbyreadinggoodbooksandbyattemptsatwritingpoetry.

Onedaywhenthewomenhadgoneouttovespersandmymasterwaskeptathomethroughindisposition,heaskedme:

“Victorismakingfunofyoubecausehesaysyouwritepoetry,Pyeshkov.

Isthattrue?

Wellthen,readittome!

”

Itwouldhavebeenawkwardtorefuse,andIreadseveralofmypoeticalcompositions.Theseevidentlydidnotpleasehim,buthesaid:

“Sticktoit!

Sticktoit!

YoumaybecomeaPushkin;haveyoureadPushkin?

”

“Dothegoblinshavefuneralrites?

Arethewitchesgiveninmarriage?

”

Inhistimepeoplestillbelievedingoblins,buthedidnotbelieveinthemhimself.Ofcoursehewasjustjoking.

“Ye-es,brother,”hedrawledthoughtfully,“Yououghttohavebeentaught,butnowitistoolate.Thedevilknowswhatwillbecomeofyou!

Ishouldhidethatnote-bookofyoursmorecarefully,forifthewomengetholdofit,theywilllaughatyou.Women,brother,lovetotouchoneonaweakspot.”

Forsometimepastmymasterhadbeenquietandthoughtful;hehadatrickoflookingabouthimcautiously,andthesoundofthebellstartledhim.

Some—timeshewouldgivewaytoapainfulirritabilityabouttrifles,wouldscoldusall,andrushoutofthehouse,returningdrunklateatnight.Onefeltthatsomethinghadcomeintohislifewhichwasknownonlytohimself,whichhadlaceratedhisheart;andthathewaslivingnotsensibly,orwillingly,butsimplybyforceofhabit.

OnSundaysfromdinner-timetillnineo’clockIwasfreetogooutandabout,andtheeveningsIspentatataverninYamskiStreet.Thehost,astoutandalwaysperspiringman,waspassionatelyfondofsinging,andthechoristersofmostofthechurchesknewthis,andusedtofrequenthishouse.

Hetreatedthemwithvodka,beer,ortea,fortheirsongs.Thechoristerswereadrunkenanduninterestingsetofpeople;theysangunwillingly,onlyforthesakeofthehospitality,andalmostalwaysitwaschurchmusic.Ascertainofthepiousdrunkardsdidnotconsiderthatthetavernwastheplaceforthem,thehostusedtoinvitethemtohisprivateroom,andIcouldonlyhearthesingingthroughthedoor.Butfrequentlypeasantsfromthevillages,andartisanscame.Thetavern-keeperhimselfusedtogoaboutthetowninquiringforsingers,askingthepeasantswhocameinonmarket-days,andinvitingthemtohishouse.

Thesingerwasalwaysgivenachairclosetothebar,hisbacktoacaskofvodka;hisheadwasoutlinedagainstthebottomofthecaskasifitwereinaroundframe.

Thebestsingerofall—andtheywerealwaysparticularlygoodsingers—wasthesmall,leanharness—maker,Kleshtchkov,wholookedasifhehadbeensqueezed,andhadtuftsofredhaironhishead.Hislittlenosegleamedlikethatofacorpse;his.benign,dreamyeyeswereimmovable.

Sometimesheclosedhiseyes,leanedthebackofhisheadagainstthebottomofthecask,protrudinghischest,andinhissoftbutall-conqueringtenorvoicesangthequickmoving:

“Ekh!

howthefoghasfallenuponthecleanfieldsalready!

Andhashiddenthedistantroads!

”

Herehewouldstop,andrestinghisbackagainstthebar,bendingbackwards,wenton,withhisfaceraisedtowardtheceiling:

“Ekh!

where—whereamIgoing?

WhereshallIfindthebroadro-oad?

”

Hisvoicewassmalllikehimself,butitwasunwearied;hepermeatedthedark,dullroomofthetav—ernwithsilverychords,melancholywords.Hisgroansandcriesconqueredeveryone;eventhedrunkenonesbecameamazedlysurprised,gazingdowninsi-lenceatthetablesinfrontofthem.Asforme,myheartwastorn,andoverflowedwiththosemightyfeel-ingswhichgoodmusicalwaysarousesasitmiracu—louslytouchestheverydepthsofthesoul.

Itwasasquietinthetavernasinachurch,andthesingerseemedlikeagoodpriest,whodidnotpreach,butwithallhissoul,andhonestly,prayedforthewholehumanfamily,thinkingaloud,asitwere,ofallthegrievouscalamitieswhichbesethumanlife.Beardedmengazeduponhim;childlikeeyesblinkedinfierce,wildfaces;atmomentssomeonesighed,andthisseemedtoemphasizethetriumphantpowerofthemusic.Atsuchtimesitalwaysseemedtomethatthelivesledbymostpeoplewereunrealandmeaningless,andthattherealityoflifelayhere.

Inthecornersatthefat-facedold-clothesdealer,Luissukha,arepulsivefemale,ashameless,loosewoman.Shehidherheadonherfatshoulderandwept,furtivelywipingthetearsfromherboldeyes.Notfarfromhersatthegloomychorister,Mitropolski,ahirsuteyoungfellowwholookedlikeadegradeddeacon,withgreateyessetinhisdrunkenface.Hegazedintotheglassofvodkaplacedbeforehim,tookitup,andraisedittohismouth,andthensetitdownagainonthetable,carefullyandnoiselessly.Forsomereasonhecouldnotdrink.

Andallthepeopleinthetavernseemedtobegluedtotheirplaces,asiftheywerelisteningtosomethinglongforgotten,butoncedearandneartothem.

WhenKleshtchkov,havingfinishedhissong,modestlysankdowninthechair,thetavern-keeper,givinghimaglassofwine,wouldsaywithasmileofsatisfaction:

“Well,thatwasverygood,sure!

Althoughyoucanhardlybesaidtosing,somuchastorecite!

However,youareamasterofit,whatevertheysay!

Noonecouldsayotherwise.”

Kleshtchkov,drinkinghisvodkawithouthaste,coughedcarefullyandsaidquietly:

“Anyonecansingifhehasavoice,buttoshowwhatkindofsoulthesongcontainsisonlygiventome.”

“Well,youneedn’tboast,anyhow.”

“Hewhohasnothingtoboastabout,doesnotboast,”saidthesingerasquietlybutmorefirmlythanbefore.

“Youareconceited,Kleshtchkov!

”exclaimedthehost,annoyed.

“Onecan’tbemoreconceitedthanone’sconscienceallows.”

AndfromthecornerthegloomyMitropolskiroared:

“Whatdoyouknowaboutthesingingofthisfallenangel,youworms,youdirt!

”

Healwaysopposedeveryone,arguedwitheveryone,broughtaccusationsagainsteveryone;andalmosteverySundayhewascruellypunishedforthisbyoneofthesingers,orwhoeverelsehadamindforthebusiness.

Thetavern-keeperlovedKleshtchkov’ssinging,buthecouldnotendurethesinger.Heusedtocomplainabouthim,andobviouslysoughtoccasionstohumiliatehimandtomakehimridiculous.ThisfactwasknowntothefrequentersofthetavernandtoKleshtchkovhimself.

“Heisagoodsinger,butheisproud;hewantstakingdown,”hesaid,andseveralguestsagreedwithhim.

“That’strue;he’saconceitedfellow!

”

“What’shegottobeconceitedabout?

Hisvoice?

ThatcomesfromGod;hehasnothingtodowithit!

Andhehasn’taverypowerfulvoice,hashe?

”

thetavern-keeperpersisted.

Hisaudienceagreedwithhim.

“True,itisnotsomuchhisvoiceashisintelligence.”

Onedayafterthesingerhadrefreshedhimselfandgoneaway,thetavern-keepertriedtopersuadeLuissukha.

“Whydon’tyouamuseyourselfwithKleshtchkovforabit,MarieEvdokimova;you’dshakehimup,wouldn’tyou?

Whatwouldyouwantforit?

”

“IfIwereyounger,”shesaidwithalaugh.

Thetavern-keepercriedloudlyandwarmly:

“Whatcantheyoungonesdo?

Butyou—youwillgetholdofhim!

Weshallseehimdancingroundyou!

Whenheisboweddownbygriefhewillbeabletosing,won’the?

Takehiminhand,Evdokimova,anddomeafavor,willyou?

”

Butshewouldnotdoit.Largeandfat,sheloweredhereyesandplayedwiththefringeofthehand—kerchiefwhichcoveredherbosom,asshesaidinamonotonous,lazydrawl:

“It’sayoungpersonthatisneededhere.IfIwereyounger,well,Iwouldnotthinktwiceaboutit.”

Almosteverynightthetavern-keepertriedtomakeKleshtchkovdrunk,butthelatter,aftertwoorthreesongsandaglassfulaftereach,wouldcarefullywrapuphisthroatwithaknittedscarf,drawhiscapwelloverhistuftedhead,anddepart.

Thetavern-keeperoftentriedtofindarivalforKleshtchkov.Theharness-makerwouldsingasongandthenthehost,afterpraisinghim,wouldsay:

“Hereisanothersinger.Comealongnow,showwhatyoucando!

”

Sometimesthesingerhadagoodvoice,butIdonotrememberanoccasiononwhichanyofKleshtchkov’srivalssangsosimplyandsoulfullyasthatlittleconceitedharness-maker.

“M—yes,”saidthetavern-keeper,notwithoutregret,“it’sgood,certainly!

Thechiefthingisthatitisavoice,butthere’snosoulinit.”

Thegueststeasedhim:

“No,youcan’tbettertheharness-maker,yousee!

”

AndKleshtchkov,lookingatthemallfromunderhisred,tuftedeyebrows,saidtothetavern-keepercalmlyandpolitely:

“Youwasteyourtime.Youwillneverfindasingerwithmygiftstosetupinoppositiontome;mygiftisfromGod.”

“WeareallfromGod!

”

“Youmayruinyourselfbythedrinkyougive,butyou’llneverfindone.”

Thetavern-keeperturnedpurpleandmuttered:

“Howdoweknow?

Howdoweknow?

”

ButKleshtchkovpointedouttohimfirmly:

“AgainItellyouthisissinging,notacock-fight.”

“Iknowthat!

Whydoyoukeepharpingonit?

”

“Iamnotharpingonit;Iamsimplypointingoutsomethingtoyou.Ifasongisnothingbutadiversion,itcomesfromthedevil!

”

“Allright!

You‘dbettersingagain.”

“Icanalwayssing,eveninmysleep,”agreedKleshtchkov,andcarefullyclearinghisthroathebegantosing.

Andallnonsense,trashytalk,andambitionsvanishedintosmoke