The Created Legend by Fyodor Sologub (ebook reader color screen TXT) ๐
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 Sologubโs 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 โDrops of Blood,โ is the first of the โCreated Legendโ 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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โWhoโs drunk?โ
โWell, who?โ asked a young working man at the next table contemptuously.
โI am drunk!โ exclaimed the drunkard in the red shirt. โAnd who am I, do you know, eh?โ
โYes, who are you? What sort of a bird are you?โ asked the young working man in the black calico blouse derisively.
โI am Borodulin!โ said the drunkard, and there was an expression on his face as if he had pronounced a famous name.
His neighbours roared with laughter, and shouted coarse, derisive words. The fellow in the red shirt cried angrily:
โWhat do you think? Is Borodulin, in your opinion, a peasant?โ
The working man in the black blouse began to get annoyed. His lean cheeks grew red. He sprang from his place, and shouted angrily:
โWell, who are you? Answer.โ
โIโm a peasant on my passport. An army reserve man. But thatโs not all, I assure you,โ said Borodulin.
โWell, who then are you?โ repeated the young working man angrily, as he took a step towards him.
โAnd do you know what I am on my card? Can you guess?โ asked Borodulin.
He blinked, and tried to look important. The comrades of the young working man tried to dissuade him from pursuing his inquiries, and whispered as they drew him away:
โDonโt waste your time on him. Heโs a nobody.โ
โIโm a detective, thatโs what I am!โ said Borodulin with his important air.
The working man in the black blouse spat contemptuously and walked back to his table. Borodulin went on:
โYou think Iโm out of my senses. No, old chap, youโre mistaken. Iโm an experienced man. What do you think of me now? Iโm a detective. I can arrest anyone!โ
The men at the neighbouring tables listened to him and exchanged glances. Borodulin went on boasting.
โSuppose I put the police on to you?โ asked a merchant at one of the middle tables angrily. His small black eyes sparkled.
Borodulin burst out laughing, and shouted:
โI have the police in the hollow of my hand. Thatโs where I have them.โ
The customers grumbled. Threats were heard:
โYouโd better go away while youโre still whole.โ
He paid his bill and left. Suddenly the sound of a crowd gathering in the street was heard. From the window Elisaveta and Trirodov could see the fellow in the red shirt sauntering backwards and forwards in the street, only a few paces from the tavern, and annoying the passersby. He could be heard shouting:
โIโll report you! Iโll arrest you! Hand over your ten kopecks.โ
Many, afraid of him, acceded to his request. Borodulin clutched at every passerby. He threw off the menโs caps, he pinched the women, while he pulled young boys by the ear. The women ran from him shrieking. The more timid men also ran. The bolder ones paused in menacing attitudes. These Borodulin did not dare to molest. Small boys ran behind him in a crowd, laughing and hooting. Borodulin grumbled.
โYouโd better look out. Do you know who I am?โ
โWell, who are you?โ asked a young fellow whom he jostled. โYouโre a pothouse plug.โ
A crowd formed round them. Their faces were morose and unfriendly. Borodulin was afraid, but he showed a bold front and boasted. He shouted:
โTwo or three of you will be necessary!โ
A sudden attack was made upon Borodulin. A young robust fellow sprang forward from the crowd with a shout, an enormous cobblestone in his hand.
โWhatโs this dog showing his teeth for?โ
He hit Borodulin on the head with the stone. It was unfortunately too well aimed. Borodulin fell. Others attacked him as he lay there. The workman who hit him with the stone made his escape.
Elisaveta and Trirodov were looking out of the window. Trirodov exclaimed:
โThe Cossacks!โ
The people in the street scattered in all directions. The mutilated corpse lay in a pool of blood on the pavement.
XVIIOstrov caused Trirodov a great deal of annoyance. More than once Trirodov returned to the earlier circumstances of their acquaintance and to their recent meeting at Skorodozh.
The week having elapsed, Ostrov paid Trirodov another visit. That whole week Ostrov could not get rid of his confusion and uneasiness. The details of his meeting with Trirodov became absurdly entangled in his memory. He kept on forgetting the day of the week it was. The week passed rather quickly for him. This was possibly due to his having made several interesting acquaintances. He had become quite a noticeable personage about town.
Ostrov made his visit late on Tuesday evening. He was received at once, and led into a chamber on the ground floor. Trirodov came in almost immediately. Not a little astonished, he asked unwillingly:
โWell, what can I do for you, Denis Alekseyevitch?โ
โIโve come for the money,โ said Ostrov gruffly. โTo receive the promised relief at your bountiful hands.โ
โI did not expect you until Wednesday,โ replied Trirodov.
โWhy Wednesday when Tuesday is just as good?โ said Ostrov with a savage smile. โOr do you find it so hard to part with your cash? Have you become a bourgeois, Giorgiy Sergeyevitch?โ
Trirodov suddenly appeared to recall something as, with a tinge of derision in his smile, he asked:
โI beg your pardon, Denis Alekseyevitch, I thought you were coming tomorrow, as was arranged. I havenโt the money ready for you.โ
Ostrov was annoyed. His broad face grew dark. He exclaimed, his eyes red with anger:
โYou asked me to come in a week, and Iโve come in a week. You donโt expect me to come here forty times, do you? I have other business. Youโve promised me the money, and so hand it over. You must loosen your purse-strings whether you like it or not.โ
He grew more savage with every word. In the end he struck the small round white table that stood on slender legs in front of him with his stout fist. Trirodov answered calmly:
โIt is now Tuesday. That means the week is not up yet.โ
โWhat do you mean it isnโt up?โ said Ostrov. โI came to see you on Tuesday. Do you count eight days in a week, in the French
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