The Created Legend by Fyodor Sologub (ebook reader color screen TXT) 📕
Description
Hidden in the forest, the poet Trirodov attempts to secede from the troubled society of early twentieth century Russia to build his own utopia: a school for the quiet children he cares for. Nothing is ever that easy though, and his personal connections to the outside world tie him into the political whirlwind of agitators, factions and power struggles that threaten his solitude.
The Created Legend portrays a stark contrast to the protagonists of Sologub’s earlier work The Little Demon, even though the setting is the same town of Skorodozh. There, they varied from at best well-meaning to actively malignant; here the lead characters are idealistic, and isolate themselves from the trials of Russian society in an attempt to maintain their idealism. Trirodov sees beauty and mystery everywhere he looks, and (following the title) works to create his own legend.
This volume, originally titled “Drops of Blood,” is the first of the “Created Legend” trilogy and the only one translated contemporaneously into English. It was received with some bewilderment by critics: the combination of current affairs and magical events proved too strange for many. However, treated as an early example of magic realism and with the benefit of hindsight, the setting and symbolism is less shocking and more readily accessible to the modern reader.
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- Author: Fyodor Sologub
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A small, frail schoolmaster with a squeaky voice came. Then another, a third, and still others—an endless flock of peaceful men with wails of revolt.
And yet another dream.
The city square was bathed in the bright sunlight. A muzhik appeared and shouted at the top of his voice:
“Hey there! Stand up for your gov’r-ment, and for holy Russia!”
Another muzhik came in answer to his shout, then a third and a fourth. Slowly and steadily the crowd grew, the turmoil increased. A muzhik in a white apron wearing a conspicuous emblem7 made his way through the crowd and, screwing up his mouth, cried like a madman:
“For Rush-ya, I say, fellows, kill ’em!”
He threw himself on Elisaveta and began to strangle her.
She awoke.
Again there was a dark, terrible dream. Nothing as yet was to be seen, it was hard to tell what was happening. But fear filled the intense darkness. Dark figures seemed to throng in it. The darkness cleared a little, the atmosphere became ominously grey. A narrow courtyard slowly outlined itself, flanked by high walls with windows closely intersected by bars. Her heart whispered audibly:
“A prison. A prison courtyard.”
Out of a narrow door prisoners were being conducted into the still dark courtyard on a cold early morning in winter. They walked in single file—a soldier, a prisoner, a soldier, a prisoner, a soldier—there seemed to be no end to it; there was a steady shuffling of feet across the courtyard. A small gate opened in the wall with a creaking sound. All walked through it. And beyond the wall Elisaveta already caught a glimpse of a flat, endless field of snow, and of a whole row of gallows that stretched into the invisible distance. They were approaching these nearer and nearer—to meet their fate.
She could not remember how it happened, but she also walked with them. A soldier strode in front of her and in front of the soldier was a boy. Though the boy had his back to her she recognized him—it was Misha. Terror paralysed her tongue—when she tried to cry out she could not find her voice. Terror fettered her feet—when she tried to run she remained rooted to the spot. Terror gripped her arms—when she tried to lift them they hung helplessly at her sides.
People were being hanged at the nearest gallows and the prisoners had to walk past the hanged ones to the gallows beyond. Misha was being hanged, but he broke loose. He was hanged again, and again he broke loose. This happened an endless number of times, and each time he broke loose.
She could see a furious face and the grey bristles of trimmed moustaches. She could hear the malignant cry:
“We must finish him off!”
A shot was fired; there was a low, dull discharge: the boy fell and began to toss on the ground. Another shot—the boy kept on tossing. The shots came faster—but the boy was still alive.
Elisaveta awoke; this time she did not go to sleep again. Her heart beat half with pain, half with joy, because it was but a dream—but a dream! Her heart was bright with exultant joy.
The golden arrows of the yet quiet and gentle Dragon fell softly with sidelong glances. Evidently it was still early. In the distance Elisaveta could hear the sound of a horn and the lowing of cows. The bedroom walls were tinged with rose light. The early light stole in through the windows and messaged an altogether new, better day. A refreshing breeze blew in through the open window, the twitter of birds also entered, the air resounded with early morning joy.
Elisaveta was soon aware that Elena was also awake.
VIIBoth sisters had slept badly that night. Elisaveta was worn out by nightmares, while Elena woke several times and went to her. Both felt the sweet after-dizziness of sleep suddenly cut short by the Dragon’s sickles. Their memories pursued one another in a confused, vivid flock. They began to recall the circumstances of yesterday’s visit. A secret agitation, akin to shame, stole over them. Little by little they conquered this feeling during the day. Alone again, they discussed what they had seen at Trirodov’s. A strange forgetfulness came upon them. The details of the visit grew more vague the more they tried to recall them. They found themselves in constant disagreement, and corrected one another. It might have been a dream. Now it seemed one, now the other. Was it reality or a dream? Where is the borderline? Whether life be a sweet or a bitter dream, it passes by like a swift vision!
Three days passed by. Again the day was quiet and clear, again the high Dragon smiled his malignant, excessively bright smile. He counted, as he rose, his livid seconds, his flaming minutes; and he let fall upon the earth, with a scarcely perceptible echo, his lead-heavy but transparent hours. It was three o’clock in the afternoon; they had just finished luncheon. The Rameyevs and the Matovs were at home. Again Elisaveta wrangled with Piotr and, as before, the discussion was long, heated and discordant—everyone left the table flustered and depressed; the hopeless confusion of it all deeply affected even the usually composed Miss Harrison.
The sisters were left by themselves. They went out on the lower balcony and pretended to read. They appeared to be waiting for something. This waiting made their hearts beat fast under their heaving breasts.
Elisaveta, letting the book fall upon her knees, was the first to break the heavy silence.
“I think he is coming today.”
The breeze blew at that moment, there was a rustle in the foliage and a little bird suddenly began to chirp away somewhere—and it seemed as if the depressed garden were glad because of these lively, resonant, quickly uttered words.
“Who?” asked Elena.
The insincerity of her question made her flush quite suddenly. She knew very well whom Elisaveta meant. The latter glanced at her and said:
“Trirodov, of course. It
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