Chapter 30: Sleeplessness

When Belinsky walked over to fetch Mikhail to read aloud his latest novel, another young man at the gathering, Sologub, stepped up beside Turgenev, who had just finished speaking with those present, and asked with a faint trace of sarcasm:

“Ivan, what do you think of this gentleman? Since we met, I’ve heard not a single interesting idea from him, nor seen any refined behavior; as for his novels, I doubt they’re as excellent as Visarion claims.”

“I think he’s a fine gentleman,” Turgenev replied, glancing at Sologub—the perpetually affected fellow—and added:

“I quite like his novels.”

Turgenev was fairly familiar with Sologub; recently, it seemed, he had been working on his “Four-Wheeled Carriage,” and indeed had received praise from Belinsky.

But unfortunately, the moment Mikhail’s novel appeared, Belinsky’s entire attention was snatched away from him.

And indeed, Sologub was a frivolous fellow—sometimes pretending to be a student from Dorpat, other times putting on aristocratic airs; in high society, he boasted of his identity as a writer, while in literary circles, he flaunted his count’s title.

If introduced to an ordinary person, he’d shake their hand with only two fingers, then pretend not to recognize them the next day.

In this age, idealists certainly existed, but aristocratic youths like Sologub were the norm.

Who would willingly live alongside commoners when they could rise above them?

For all these reasons combined, the young man harbored a mysterious hostility toward Mikhail.

As for his novels, Sologub always sensed a dangerous undercurrent in them.

Though the young Turgenev loved to brag and treat others to meals, his relationship with Sologub was far from good; thus, faced with the man’s clearly provocative words, Turgenev spoke plainly.

Upon hearing Turgenev’s reply, Sologub merely shrugged and said: “Then let’s hear how his new work fares. You know, few can produce good work consecutively—but if this piece is truly mediocre, I’m willing to speak a word of fairness.”

Before Turgenev could say more, Mikhail was already pulled over by Belinsky; by the time he reached the group, he had already composed himself, concealing what he had just been doing.

Having experienced the earlier incident in the apartment, Mikhail now felt no nervousness at all under the watchful eyes of these properly dressed gentlemen and ladies; he took out his manuscript and prepared to begin.

Seeing Mikhail’s demeanor, Nekrasov instantly recalled his own first time reading poetry here—his voice weak, tense, stiff, the very opposite of Mikhail now.

His face flushed slightly, yet he still remembered to stuff something into his mouth.

At this moment, Mikhail finally began reading his latest novel—slightly revised by him to better suit the times—to the assembled authorities of St. Petersburg’s cultural circle:

“Night. The young nurse Varvara, a thirteen-year-old girl, rocks a cradle where a baby lies; she hums a lullaby, so low it’s barely audible: ‘Sleep, sleep well, I’ll sing you a song.’”

Again, the same theme.

Sologub, who had been listening intently, couldn’t help curling his lips.

Having written about that boy, now he must fill the gap with a girl?

How utterly unoriginal.

Mikhail didn’t notice the young man’s expression; he continued reading at his own pace.

“The baby cries. He has long cried himself hoarse and exhausted; yet he still cries incessantly; no one knows when he will stop.

But Varvara is sleepy. Her eyelids won’t open, her head droops, her neck aches. Her eyelids and lips won’t move; she feels her face has dried, turned to wood, as if her head had shrunk to the size of a pin’s tip.”

By this point, everyone present had clearly recognized the protagonist’s identity; indeed, such maids were common in every noble household, assigned to handle trivial chores.

“Now this lullaby only angers and torments her, for it lulls her to sleep—yet she must not sleep. If Varvara falls asleep (may God spare her from it), her masters will beat her.”

Until this point, Belinsky, observing the audience’s reactions while listening to Mikhail’s reading, could still understand: a poor girl rocking a child while struggling to stay awake.

But what followed made Belinsky pause slightly:

“Her deceased father, Yefim Stepanov, now rolled about on the floor. She couldn’t see him, but she heard him writhing in pain, moaning. According to him, his ‘hernia had flared up’;

He suffered so terribly he could not speak, could only gasp, his teeth chattering like a drumbeat: ‘Boom—boom—boom—boom…’

Her mother, Pelageya, had rushed to the master’s estate to report that Yefim was dying. She had been gone a long time—she should have returned by now. Varvara lay on the stove, awake, listening to her father’s ‘boom—boom—boom.’”

Why, while rocking the child, did these images appear before her eyes?

Had exhaustion reached such a peak that vivid hallucinations emerged?

And in this hallucination, the girl finally saw her master’s carriage arrive to take her father away—yet she received this final message:

“Pelageya returned; she crossed herself and whispered: ‘They treated him through the night, but near dawn, he gave his soul to God. May he rest eternally in heaven… They say they treated him too late… Had they treated him sooner, it might have helped…’”

This hallucination did not last long; the girl soon returned to reality:

“Varvara walked into the forest and wept bitterly, when suddenly someone struck her hard on the back of her head, sending her forehead crashing into a birch tree. She raised her eyes and saw her master, the tanner, standing before her.

‘What are you doing, you wretched girl?’ he said. ‘The child is crying, and you’re sleeping!’ He yanked her ear hard; she shook her head and resumed rocking the cradle, humming her song.”

Though awakened by her master’s blow, the girl—already pushed to the brink of exhaustion—soon blurred the line between hallucination and reality again:

“Green patches, shadows of trousers and swaddling clothes, danced before her, soon filling her mind. She saw again the muddy road. Men carrying packs and their shadows lay down and slept.

Varvara watched them, longing desperately to sleep; she wished nothing more than to lie down comfortably—but her mother Pelageya walked beside her, urging her to hurry. They were rushing to the city to find work.

‘For Christ’s sake, give us a few kopecks!’ her mother begged every passerby. ‘Have mercy, kind sir, as God has mercy!’ ‘Bring the baby!’ a familiar voice answered. ‘Bring the baby!’ the voice repeated, now weak and harsh: ‘Are you asleep, wretched thing?’”

Amid this intertwining of reality and hallucination, the girl received no moment of rest—only obeyed her master’s endless commands:

“Varvara, light the stove!” came her master’s voice from outside the door.

“Varvara, heat the samovar!” her mistress called.

Varvara split a log, but as soon as she lit the fragments and placed them in the samovar, another order came: “Varvara, clean the master’s boots!” She sat on the floor, scrubbing the boots, thinking how wonderful it would be to bury her head inside one of those large, deep boots and sleep for a little while.

“Varvara, go buy vodka! Varvara, where’s the corkscrew? Varvara, clean the herring!” But now the guests had left; the lights were out; the master and mistress had gone to sleep. “Varvara, rock the baby!” came the final command.

By this point in the story, everyone present had stopped all movement; only occasionally did they glance sideways at each other, as if silently asking: What ending could this tale possibly have?

Would it be like “Vanka”—leaving a faint, ambiguous hope, yet conveying a deeper despair?

Soon, they heard the story’s conclusion:

“Half-asleep, she couldn’t understand what force bound her limbs, crushed her, denied her life.

She looked around, searching for that force to free herself—but she found nothing. At last, utterly spent, she strained to open her eyes, stared at the flickering green patches, listened to the crying—and finally found the enemy that denied her life.

The enemy was the baby.

She smiled. She found it strange: how had she never understood this before? The green patches, the shadows, the crickets seemed to smile too, equally astonished.

This mistaken notion seized Varvara. She rose from her stool, her face lit with a blissful smile, eyes unblinking, pacing the room. She felt joy at the thought of soon freeing herself from the baby that bound her limbs, her heart tingling with delight.”

As he reached this point, Mikhail, somewhat weary, lifted his head, gathering strength to deliver the ending of this girl who longed desperately for sleep.

Just then, as Mikhail raised his eyes, they met Sologub’s stunned gaze—and Mikhail read:

“Kill the baby, then sleep, sleep, sleep.”

Varvara smiled, winked at the green patch, and crept quietly toward the cradle, bending low to lean close to the baby.

After strangling him, she quickly lay down on the floor, laughing with joy—for now she could sleep; within a minute, she slept as soundly as a corpse.”

Over three thousand words—I truly tried hard to distill this (facepalming).

Again, I’ve plucked another strand of Chekhov’s wool (dog face).

Plucking wool from others is harder—most Russian writers of this era were landowners; if choosing a protagonist from a similar background, I’d need to think more carefully.

Next time, I’ll tackle old Dostoevsky.

Too bad “Poor Folk” won’t be ready in time, but other suitable works remain.





(End of chapter)