Chapter 30: Sleepy

When Belinsky stepped forward to pull Mikhail over to read his latest novel, another young man at the gathering, Sollogub, who had just approached Turgenev after the latter finished speaking to those present, asked with a hint of faint irony:

"Ivan, what do you think of this Mr.? From the moment we met until now, I haven't heard a single interesting thought from his mouth, nor have I seen any Gao Ya conduct from him. As for the novel he wrote, I feel it might not be as excellent as Vissarion claims."

"I think he is a decent Mr." Glancing at Sollogub, that perpetually affected fellow, Turgenev continued:

"I quite like his novel."

Turgenev was actually quite familiar with this Sollogub; recently, he seemed to be writing his "The Four-Wheeled Carriage," and had indeed received high praise from Belinsky.

But unfortunately, when Mikhail's novel appeared, all of Belinsky's gaze was instantly snatched away and fixed upon it.

At the same time, he was indeed a frivolous fellow, constantly pretending to be a Derpt student one moment and putting on the airs of a noble the next. In high society, he boasted of his identity as a writer, while in the Cultural Circle, he flaunted his title of Count.

If he introduced a commoner to someone, he would extend only two fingers to shake hands, and the next time they met, he would pretend they were strangers.

In an era like the present, idealists certainly exist, but noble-born youths like Sollogub are often the mainstream.

If one can live high and mighty, who would be willing to associate with those common people?

In short, for various combined reasons, this young man indeed harbored a nameless hostility toward Mikhail.

As for his novel, Sollogub always felt there was a dangerous aura within it.

Although the young Turgenev nowadays loved to brag and treat others to meals, his relationship with Sollogub was by no means good; therefore, facing the other's obviously provocative words, Turgenev naturally spoke the truth.

Upon hearing Turgenev's reply, Sollogub merely shook his head noncommittally and said: "Then let us hear how his new work truly is. You know, few can write good works consecutively, but if this piece of his is truly too mediocre, I would be willing to speak a few words of fairness."

Before Turgenev could say anything more, Mikhail had already been pulled over by Belinsky, and by the time he reached the front of the crowd, Mikhail had already tidied his appearance, concealing what he had just been doing.

Because of his previous experience in the apartment, at this very moment, facing the gazes of these well-dressed Mr. s and ladies present, Mikhail felt not the slightest nervousness; he took out his manuscript and began his final preparations.

Seeing Mikhail like this, Nekrasov instantly recalled his own awkwardness when he first came here to recite poetry—his voice weak, nervous and constrained, the very opposite of the current Mikhail.

While his face turned slightly red, Nekrasov did not forget to stuff something into his mouth.

And at this very moment, Mikhail finally stood before this assembly of authorities in the Saint Petersburg Cultural Circle and began to read this latest novel, which he had slightly revised to better fit the current era:

"Night. The little nursemaid Varka, a 13-year-old Miss, is rocking a cradle in which lies a little baby; she hums a song, her voice so low it is barely audible: Sleep, sleep well, I will sing you a song."

It is the same subject matter again.

Sollogub, who had been listening intently, could not help but curl the corners of his mouth.

Having written about such a boy, must one now fill the vacancy for a girl as well?

Truly lacking in novelty.

Mikhail did not notice this young man's expression; he simply continued reading at his own pace.

"The baby is crying. He has long cried himself hoarse and is tired; yet he keeps crying without stopping; no one knows when he will finally cease.

But Varka is sleepy. Her eyelids will not open, her head droops, her neck aches. Her eyelids and lips will not move; she feels her face seems dried up, turned to wood, as if her head has become as small as the head of a pin."

By the time he read this, the crowd present had undoubtedly heard what identity the protagonist held; indeed, such a maid could be found in almost every noble household, specifically to handle their trivial chores.

"Now this tune, however, only provokes anger and discomfort, because it urges her to sleep, yet she must absolutely not sleep; if Varka falls asleep (may God forbid she falls asleep), the masters will beat her."

Up to this point, Belinsky, who was observing everyone's reactions while listening to Mikhail's recitation, could still understand: it was just a poor Miss trying hard not to fall asleep while coaxing a child.

But the following content caused Belinsky to pause slightly:

"Her deceased father, Efim Stepanov, was now rolling back and forth on the floor. She could not see him, but she could hear him rolling on the floor in pain, groaning. According to him, his 'hernia had flared up';

he was in such pain he could not utter a word, only gasping for breath, his teeth chattering like a continuous drumbeat: 'Thump--thump--thump--thump...'"

Her mother, Pelageya, had already run to the master's estate to report that Efim was dying. She had been gone a long time and should be returning. Varka lay on the stove, awake, listening to her father make the 'thump--thump--thump' sound."

Clearly she was coaxing a child, so why did these images appear before her eyes?

Was she so exhausted that she was experiencing intense hallucinations?

And amidst such hallucinations, this Miss finally waited for the master's carriage to take her father away, yet ultimately received this news:

"Pelageya returned; she made the sign of the cross on her chest and whispered: 'They treated him during the night, but near morning, he gave his soul to God. May he rest in peace in heaven forever... They say it was treated too late... It should have been treated earlier...'"

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

"Varka walked into the forest and wept there, but suddenly someone hit the back of her head so hard that her forehead struck a birch tree. She raised her eyes and saw the master, the cobbler, standing before her.

'What are you doing, you wretched girl?' he said. 'The child is crying, yet you are sleeping!' He grabbed her ear hard; she shook her head, then rocked the cradle and hummed her song."

Even after being beaten awake by the master, soon, this Miss who seemed utterly exhausted suddenly blurred the line between hallucination and reality once more:

"Green spots, shadows of trousers and swaddling clothes, flickering and dancing toward her, soon occupied her mind again. She saw the muddy road again. People carrying packs and shadows had already lain down and fallen asleep.

Varka looked at them; she herself wanted to sleep terribly; she longed to lie down comfortably, but her mother Pelageya walked beside her, urging her to hurry. The two of them were rushing to the city to find work.

'For Christ's sake, give us some money!' her mother begged anyone she met. 'Have mercy like God, kind master!' 'Take the baby!' a familiar voice answered her. 'Take the baby!' The voice said it again, but with less breath, the tone turning fierce, 'Are you asleep, you wretched thing?'"

Amidst this interweaving of reality and hallucination, this Miss still could not get a moment's rest, merely doing one task after another under the master's orders:

"'Varka, light the stove!' she heard the master's voice from outside the door.

"'Varka, boil the samovar!' the mistress shouted.

Varka split a piece of firewood, but just as she lit the fragments and put them into the samovar, she heard another command: 'Varka, polish the master's galoshes!' She sat on the floor, polishing the galoshes, thinking how wonderful it would be to stick her head into a large, deep galosh and take a short nap.

"'Varka, run quickly to buy vodka! Varka, where is the corkscrew? Varka, clean out the herring!' But now, the guests had finally left; the lights were extinguished, and the master and mistress had gone to sleep. 'Varka, rock the baby!' she heard the final command."

When the story reached this point, everyone present had long stopped their hand movements, glancing at the person beside them only very rarely, as if wanting to ask the other what kind of ending such a story might have.

Was it like that "Vanka," leaving an unknown hope, while actually conveying a deeper layer of despair?

And soon, they heard the ending of this story:

"But in her half-sleep, half-awake state, she simply could not understand what force bound her hands and feet, pressed her down, and would not allow her to live.

She looked around, searching for that force to free herself from it, but she could not find it. Finally, exhausted to death, she forced her eyes wide open with all her strength, raised her head to look at the flickering green spots, listened to the crying, and thus found the enemy that would not allow her to live.

It turned out the enemy was the baby.

She smiled. She felt it strange: how had she not understood such a small matter before? The green spots, the shadows, the crickets, seemed to smile too, and felt strange as well.

This mistaken notion seized Varka. She stood up from the stool, a relieved smile appearing on her face, her eyes unblinking, walking back and forth in the room. Thinking that she would soon be rid of the baby that bound her hands and feet, she felt relieved, her heart tingling with pleasure."

When he read to this point, Mikhail, somewhat weary, raised his head, gathered his spirits, and prepared to recite the ending of this Miss who desperately longed for sleep.

And just as Mikhail raised his head, he met the eyes of a somewhat stunned Sollogub; then Mikhail recited:

"Kill the doll, then sleep, sleep, sleep."

Varka smiled, winked, waved a finger at that green spot, quietly walked to the cradle, bent down, and leaned close to the doll.

After she strangled him, she quickly lay down on the floor, laughed with joy because she could sleep, and in less than a minute she was sleeping as soundly as a dead person."

Over three thousand characters, truly, I worked very hard to refine this (facepalm).

Shearing another handful of Chekhov's wool (doge).

Shearing other people's wool is indeed a bit difficult; after all, Russian writers of this period were usually landlords, and given the protagonist's family background, one must consider the choice very carefully.

However, for the next chapter, I'll go with some old Dostoevsky.

Unfortunately, "The Poor" won't make it in time to be sheared, but fortunately there are other suitable ones.

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(End of this chapter)