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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Frenchman, you’ll never sing like that.
And other songs in the same spirit.
Doulebov wiped his face with his right hand—like a cat licking its paw—and piped out:
“I hear that the Marquis Teliatnikov is to pay us a visit soon.”
“We are not within his jurisdiction,” said Poterin.
But his whole face became distorted with apprehension.
“All the same,” said Doulebov in his thin voice, “he possesses great powers. He can do what he likes.”
The Vice-Governor looked gloomily at Poterin and said morosely:
“He’s going to pull you all up.”
Poterin grew deathly pale and broke out into perspiration. The conversation about the Marquis Teliatnikov continued, and the local revolutionary ferment was mentioned in the course of it.
Revolutionary proclamations had appeared in all the woods of the neighbourhood. Large pieces of bark were cut off the trees and proclamations pasted on. It was impossible to remove these bills, which were overrun by a thin, transparent coating of resin. The zealous preservers of order had either to chop out or to scrape off the obnoxious places with a knife.
“I think,” said Doulebova, “that it must be an idea of our chemist, Mr. Trirodov.”
“Of course.” She was confirmed in her suggestion by the cringing, dry-looking instructress of German.
Zinaida Grigorievna turned towards Poterina in order to show favour to her hostess by her conversation, and asked her with an amused smile:
“How do you like our celebrated Decadent?”
The instructress tried to understand. An expression of fear showed on her flat, dull face. She asked timidly:
“Whom do you mean, Zinaida Grigorievna?”
“Whom else could I mean but Mr. Trirodov,” replied Doulebova malignantly.
The malice was all on Trirodov’s account, but nevertheless Poterina trembled with fear.
“Ah, yes, Trirodov; how then, how then. …” she repeated in a worried, flustered way, and was at a loss what to say.
Doulebova said bitingly:
“Well, I don’t think he laughs very often. He ought to be to your taste.”
“To my taste!” exclaimed Poterina with a flushed face. “What are you saying, Zinaida Grigorievna! As the old saying goes: ‘The Tsar’s servant has been bent into a harness arch!’ ”
“Yes, he always looks askance at you and talks to no one,” said the wife of the instructor Krolikov; “but he is a very kind man.”
Doulebova turned her malignant glance upon her. Krolikova grew pale with fear, and guessed that she had not said the right thing. She corrected herself:
“He is a kind man in his words.”
Doulebova smiled at her benevolently.
“Do you know what I think?” said Zherbenev, addressing himself to Doulebova. “I have seen many men in my time, I may say without boasting; and in my opinion, it is a very bad sign that he looks askance at you.”
“Of course!” agreed Poterina. “That is the honest truth!”
“Let a man look me straight in my face,” went on Zherbenev. “But the quiet ones. …”
Zherbenev did not finish his sentence. Doulebova said:
“Frankly, I don’t like your poet. I can’t understand him. There is something strange about him—something disagreeable.”
“He’s altogether suspicious,” said Zherbenev with the look of a person who knew a great deal.
It was asserted that Trirodov and others were collecting money for an armed revolt. At this they looked significantly at Voronok. Voronok retorted, but he was not heard. There was an outburst of malignant remarks against Trirodov. It was said that there was a secret underground printing establishment in Trirodov’s house, and that not only the instructresses worked there but also Trirodov’s young wards. The women exclaimed in horror:
“They are mere tots!”
“What do you think of your tots now?”
“There are no children nowadays.”
“I’ve just heard,” said Voronok, “that a nine-year-old boy is kept in confinement by the police.”
“The young rebel!” said the Vice-Governor savagely.
“Yes, and I’ve also heard,” said Poterin, “that a thirteen-year-old boy has been arrested. Such a little beggar, and already in revolt.”
The Vice-Governor said morosely:
“He’s going with his grandfather to Siberia.”
“Why?” asked Voronok with a flushed face.
“He laughed,” growled the Vice-Governor morosely.
Doulebov turned to Poterin and asked in a loud voice:
“And I hope you have no rebels in your school.”
“No, thank God, I have nothing of that kind,” replied Poterin. “But, to tell the truth, the children are very loose nowadays.”
Doulebov, with a patronizing amiableness, said again to him:
“You have a good school. Everything is in exemplary order.”
Poterin grew radiant and boasted:
“Yes, I know how to pull them up. I treat them sternly.”
“A salutary sternness,” said Doulebov.
Encouraged by these words, the instructor-inspector asked:
“Do you think one might also beat them?”
Doulebov avoided a direct answer. He wiped his face with his hand—like a cat using its paw—and changed the subject.
They began touching recollections about the good old times. They began to relate how, where, and whom they birched.
“They birch even now,” said Shabalov with a quiet joy.
XXXIAfter luncheon they went into the assembly room. Some of them began to smoke. Instructor Mouralov’s wife took advantage of an opportune moment to speak to Doulebova. She cautiously stole up to her when she saw her standing aside and told her that Poterin took bribes. Separate phrases and words were distinguished from the rest of the conversation.
“Have you noticed, Zinaida Grigorievna?”
“What’s that?”
“Our inspector is parading in gloves.”
“Yes?”
“Gloves! Yellow ones!”
“What of that?”
“Out of bribes.”
Zinaida Grigorievna was overjoyed, and grew animated. For a long time the whispers of the malicious women were audible, and between their whispers their hissing, snakelike laughter.
Then the women, together with Shabalov and Voronok, went off to finish the examination. Doulebov and the Vice-Governor went in to look at the library. Poterin accompanied them. Everything was in order. The thick volumes of Katkov32 quietly slumbered; the dust had been wiped from them on the eve of the Vice-Governor’s visit.
Poterin made use of an opportunity to make insinuations against the instructors. He reported that Voronok did not go to church, and that he collected schoolboys at his own house in order to read something or other to them.
“I shall have to have a talk with him,” said Doulebov. “Ask him into your study and I will talk to him. In the meantime, show Ardalyon Borisovitch the
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