Read the CLASSICS -- free downloading of complete books for your library!
Other great pieces of literature at the Christian Classics Ethereal Library:
The Brothers Karamazov and Crime and Punishment
by Fyodor Dostoyevsky, my two all-time favorite novels
"Since its publication, it has been acclaimed all over the world by intellectuals as one of the supreme achievements in literature."
https://app.box.com/s/xx0llgjz176r2dcg32bz
The Complete Book online
THERE was one circumstance which struck Grigory particularly,
and confirmed a very unpleasant and revolting suspicion. This Lizaveta
was a dwarfish creature, "not five foot within a wee bit," as many
of the pious old women said pathetically about her, after her death.
Her broad, healthy, red face had a look of blank idiocy and the
fixed stare in her eyes was unpleasant, in spite of their meek
expression. She wandered about, summer and winter alike, barefooted,
wearing nothing but a hempen smock. Her coarse, almost black hair
curled like lamb's wool, and formed a sort of huge cap on her head. It
was always crusted with mud, and had leaves; bits of stick, and
shavings clinging to it, as she always slept on the ground and in
the dirt. Her father, a homeless, sickly drunkard, called Ilya, had
lost everything and lived many years as a workman with some well-to-do
tradespeople. Her mother had long been dead. Spiteful and diseased,
Ilya used to beat Lizaveta inhumanly whenever she returned to him. But
she rarely did so, for everyone in the town was ready to look after
her as being an idiot, and so specially dear to God. Ilya's employers,
and many others in the town, especially of the tradespeople, tried
to clothe her better, and always rigged her out with high boots and
sheepskin coat for the winter. But, although she allowed them to dress
her up without resisting, she usually went away, preferably to the
cathedral porch, and taking off all that had been given her- kerchief,
sheepskin, skirt or boots- she left them there and walked away
barefoot in her smock as before. It happened on one occasion that a
new governor of the province, making a tour of inspection in our town,
saw Lizaveta, and was wounded in his tenderest susceptibilities. And
though he was told she was an idiot, he pronounced that for a young
woman of twenty to wander about in nothing but a smock was a breach of
the proprieties, and must not occur again. But the governor went his
way, and Lizaveta was left as she was. At last her father died,
which made her even more acceptable in the eyes of the religious
persons of the town, as an orphan. In fact, everyone seemed to like
her; even the boys did not tease her, and the boys of our town,
especially the schoolboys, are a mischievous set. She would walk
into strange houses, and no one drove her away. Everyone was kind to
her and gave her something. If she were given a copper, she would take
it, and at once drop it in the alms-jug of the church or prison. If
she were given a roll or bun in the market, she would hand it to the
first child she met. Sometimes she would stop one of the richest
ladies in the town and give it to her, and the lady would be pleased
to take it. She herself never tasted anything but black bread and
water. If she went into an expensive shop, where there were costly
goods or money lying about, no one kept watch on her, for they knew
that if she saw thousands of roubles overlooked by them, she would not
have touched a farthing. She scarcely ever went to church. She slept
either in the church porch or climbed over a hurdle (there are many
hurdles instead of fences to this day in our town) into a kitchen
garden. She used at least once a week to turn up "at home," that is at
the house of her father's former employers, and in the winter went
there every night, and slept either in the passage or the cow-house.
People were amazed that she could stand such a life, but she was
accustomed to it, and, although she was so tiny, she was of a robust
constitution. Some of the townspeople declared that she did all this
only from pride, but that is hardly credible. She could hardly
speak, and only from time to time uttered an inarticulate grunt. How
could she have been proud?
It happened one clear, warm, moonlight night in September (many
years ago) five or six drunken revellers were returning from the
club at a very late hour, according to our provincial notions. They
passed through the "backway," which led between the back gardens of
the houses, with hurdles on either side. This way leads out on to
the bridge over the long, stinking pool which we were accustomed to
call a river. Among the nettles and burdocks under the hurdle our
revellers saw Lizaveta asleep. They stopped to look at her,
laughing, and began jesting with unbridled licentiousness. It occurred
to one young gentleman to make the whimsical inquiry whether anyone
could possibly look upon such an animal as a woman, and so forth....
They all pronounced with lofty repugnance that it was impossible.
But Fyodor Pavlovitch, who was among them, sprang forward and declared
that it was by no means impossible, and that, indeed, there was a
certain piquancy about it, and so on.... It is true that at that
time he was overdoing his part as a buffoon. He liked to put himself
forward and entertain the company, ostensibly on equal terms, of
course, though in reality he was on a servile footing with them. It
was just at the time when he had received the news of his first wife's
death in Petersburg, and, with crape upon his hat, was drinking and
behaving so shamelessly that even the most reckless among us were
shocked at the sight of him. The revellers, of course, laughed at this
unexpected opinion; and one of them even began challenging him to
act upon it. The others repelled the idea even more emphatically,
although still with the utmost hilarity, and at last they went on
their way. Later on, Fyodor Pavlovitch swore that he had gone with
them, and perhaps it was so, no one knows for certain, and no one ever
knew. But five or six months later, all the town was talking, with
intense and sincere indignation, of Lizaveta's condition, and trying
to find out who was the miscreant who had wronged her. Then suddenly a
terrible rumour was all over the town that this miscreant was no other
than Fyodor Pavlovitch. Who set the rumour going? Of that drunken band
five had left the town and the only one still among us was an
elderly and much respected civil councillor, the father of grown-up
daughters, who could hardly have spread the tale, even if there had
been any foundation for it. But rumour pointed straight at Fyodor
Pavlovitch, and persisted in pointing at him. Of course this was no
great grievance to him: he would not have troubled to contradict a set
of tradespeople. In those days he was proud, and did not condescend to
talk except in his own circle of the officials and nobles, whom he
entertained so well.
At the time, Grigory stood up for his master vigorously. He
provoked quarrels and altercations in defence of him and succeeded
in bringing some people round to his side. "It's the wench's own
fault," he asserted, and the culprit was Karp, a dangerous convict,
who had escaped from prison and whose name was well known to us, as he
had hidden in our town. This conjecture sounded plausible, for it
was remembered that Karp had been in the neighbourhood just at that
time in the autumn, and had robbed three people. But this affair and
all the talk about it did not estrange popular sympathy from the
poor idiot. She was better looked after than ever. A well-to-do
merchants's widow named Kondratyev arranged to take her into her house
at the end of April, meaning not to let her go out until after the
confinement. They kept a constant watch over her, but in spite of
their vigilance she escaped on the very last day, and made her way
into Fyodor Pavlovitch's garden. How, in her condition, she managed to
climb over the high, strong fence remained a mystery. Some
maintained that she must have been lifted over by somebody; others
hinted at something more uncanny. The most likely explanation is
that it happened naturally- that Lizaveta, accustomed to clambering
over hurdles to sleep in gardens, had somehow managed to climb this
fence, in spite of her condition, and had leapt down, injuring
herself.
Grigory rushed to Marfa and sent her to Lizaveta, while he ran
to fetch an old midwife who lived close by. They saved the baby, but
Lizaveta died at dawn. Grigory took the baby, brought it home, and
making his wife sit down, put it on her lap. "A child of God- an
orphan is akin to all," he said, "and to us above others. Our little
lost one has sent us this, who has come from the devil's son and a
holy innocent. Nurse him and weep no more."
So Marfa brought up the child. He was christened Pavel, to which
people were not slow in adding Fyodorovitch (son of Fyodor). Fyodor
Pavlovitch did not object to any of this, and thought it amusing,
though he persisted vigorously in denying his responsibility. The
townspeople were pleased at his adopting the foundling. Later on,
Fyodor Pavlovitch invented a surname for the child, calling him
Smerdyakov, after his mother's nickname.
So this Smerdyakov became Fyodor Pavlovitch's second servant,
and was living in the lodge with Grigory and Marfa at the time our
story begins. He was employed as cook. I ought to say something of
this Smerdyakov, but I am ashamed of keeping my readers' attention
so long occupied with these common menials, and I will go back to my
story, hoping to say more of Smerdyakov in the course of it.
THERE was one circumstance which struck Grigory particularly,
and confirmed a very unpleasant and revolting suspicion. This Lizaveta
was a dwarfish creature, "not five foot within a wee bit," as many
of the pious old women said pathetically about her, after her death.
Her broad, healthy, red face had a look of blank idiocy and the
fixed stare in her eyes was unpleasant, in spite of their meek
expression. She wandered about, summer and winter alike, barefooted,
wearing nothing but a hempen smock. Her coarse, almost black hair
curled like lamb's wool, and formed a sort of huge cap on her head. It
was always crusted with mud, and had leaves; bits of stick, and
shavings clinging to it, as she always slept on the ground and in
the dirt. Her father, a homeless, sickly drunkard, called Ilya, had
lost everything and lived many years as a workman with some well-to-do
tradespeople. Her mother had long been dead. Spiteful and diseased,
Ilya used to beat Lizaveta inhumanly whenever she returned to him. But
she rarely did so, for everyone in the town was ready to look after
her as being an idiot, and so specially dear to God. Ilya's employers,
and many others in the town, especially of the tradespeople, tried
to clothe her better, and always rigged her out with high boots and
sheepskin coat for the winter. But, although she allowed them to dress
her up without resisting, she usually went away, preferably to the
cathedral porch, and taking off all that had been given her- kerchief,
sheepskin, skirt or boots- she left them there and walked away
barefoot in her smock as before. It happened on one occasion that a
new governor of the province, making a tour of inspection in our town,
saw Lizaveta, and was wounded in his tenderest susceptibilities. And
though he was told she was an idiot, he pronounced that for a young
woman of twenty to wander about in nothing but a smock was a breach of
the proprieties, and must not occur again. But the governor went his
way, and Lizaveta was left as she was. At last her father died,
which made her even more acceptable in the eyes of the religious
persons of the town, as an orphan. In fact, everyone seemed to like
her; even the boys did not tease her, and the boys of our town,
especially the schoolboys, are a mischievous set. She would walk
into strange houses, and no one drove her away. Everyone was kind to
her and gave her something. If she were given a copper, she would take
it, and at once drop it in the alms-jug of the church or prison. If
she were given a roll or bun in the market, she would hand it to the
first child she met. Sometimes she would stop one of the richest
ladies in the town and give it to her, and the lady would be pleased
to take it. She herself never tasted anything but black bread and
water. If she went into an expensive shop, where there were costly
goods or money lying about, no one kept watch on her, for they knew
that if she saw thousands of roubles overlooked by them, she would not
have touched a farthing. She scarcely ever went to church. She slept
either in the church porch or climbed over a hurdle (there are many
hurdles instead of fences to this day in our town) into a kitchen
garden. She used at least once a week to turn up "at home," that is at
the house of her father's former employers, and in the winter went
there every night, and slept either in the passage or the cow-house.
People were amazed that she could stand such a life, but she was
accustomed to it, and, although she was so tiny, she was of a robust
constitution. Some of the townspeople declared that she did all this
only from pride, but that is hardly credible. She could hardly
speak, and only from time to time uttered an inarticulate grunt. How
could she have been proud?
At the time, Grigory stood up for his master vigorously. He
provoked quarrels and altercations in defence of him and succeeded
in bringing some people round to his side. "It's the wench's own
fault," he asserted, and the culprit was Karp, a dangerous convict,
who had escaped from prison and whose name was well known to us, as he
had hidden in our town. This conjecture sounded plausible, for it
was remembered that Karp had been in the neighbourhood just at that
time in the autumn, and had robbed three people. But this affair and
all the talk about it did not estrange popular sympathy from the
poor idiot. She was better looked after than ever. A well-to-do
merchants's widow named Kondratyev arranged to take her into her house
at the end of April, meaning not to let her go out until after the
confinement. They kept a constant watch over her, but in spite of
their vigilance she escaped on the very last day, and made her way
into Fyodor Pavlovitch's garden. How, in her condition, she managed to
climb over the high, strong fence remained a mystery. Some
maintained that she must have been lifted over by somebody; others
hinted at something more uncanny. The most likely explanation is
that it happened naturally- that Lizaveta, accustomed to clambering
over hurdles to sleep in gardens, had somehow managed to climb this
fence, in spite of her condition, and had leapt down, injuring
herself.
Grigory rushed to Marfa and sent her to Lizaveta, while he ran
to fetch an old midwife who lived close by. They saved the baby, but
Lizaveta died at dawn. Grigory took the baby, brought it home, and
making his wife sit down, put it on her lap. "A child of God- an
orphan is akin to all," he said, "and to us above others. Our little
lost one has sent us this, who has come from the devil's son and a
holy innocent. Nurse him and weep no more."
So Marfa brought up the child. He was christened Pavel, to which
people were not slow in adding Fyodorovitch (son of Fyodor). Fyodor
Pavlovitch did not object to any of this, and thought it amusing,
though he persisted vigorously in denying his responsibility. The
townspeople were pleased at his adopting the foundling. Later on,
Fyodor Pavlovitch invented a surname for the child, calling him
Smerdyakov, after his mother's nickname.
So this Smerdyakov became Fyodor Pavlovitch's second servant,
and was living in the lodge with Grigory and Marfa at the time our
story begins. He was employed as cook. I ought to say something of
this Smerdyakov, but I am ashamed of keeping my readers' attention
so long occupied with these common menials, and I will go back to my
story, hoping to say more of Smerdyakov in the course of it.
No comments:
Post a Comment