The Complete Works of Fyodor Dostoyevsky: Novels, Short Stories and Autobiographical Writings. Федор Достоевский
a comfortable armchair, wearing some sort of long coat that reached to his heels, but yet he wore no cravat. He certainly was silent and thoughtful. When we went in he raised his eyebrows slightly and bent a searching glance on me. I bowed; he responded with a slight bow, a fairly polite one, however. Grandmother, seeing that Foma Fomitch was behaving graciously to me, gave me a nod and a smile. The poor woman had not expected in the morning that her paragon would take the news of Tatyana Ivanovna’s “escapade” so calmly, and so she was now in the best of spirits, though she really had been in convulsions and fainting fits earlier in the day. Behind her chair, as usual, stood Miss Perepelitsyn, compressing her lips till they looked like a thread, smiling sourly and spitefully and rubbing her bony hands one against the other. Two always mute lady companions were installed beside Madame la Generate. There was also a nun of sorts who had strayed in that morning, and an elderly lady, a neighbour who had come in after mass to congratulate Madame la Generate on the nameday and who also sat mute. Aunt Praskovya Ilyinitchna was keeping in the background somewhere in a corner, and was looking with anxiety at Foma Fomitch and her mother. My uncle was sitting in an easy-chair, and his face was beaming with a look of exceptional joy. Facing him stood Ilyusha in his red holiday shirt, with his hair in curls, looking like a little angel. Sasha and Nastenka had in secret from everyone taught him some verses to rejoice his father on this auspicious day by his progress in learning. My uncle was almost weeping with delight. Foma’s unexpected mildness, Madame la Generale’s good humour, Ilyusha’s nameday, the verses, all moved him to real enthusiasm, and with a solemnity worthy of the occasion he had asked them to send for me that I might hasten to share the general happiness and listen to the verses. Sasha and Nastenka, who had come in just after us, were standing near Ilyusha. Sasha was continually laughing, and at that moment was as happy as a little child. Nastenka, looking at her, also began smiling, though she had come into the room a moment before pale and depressed. She alone had welcomed Tatyana Ivanovna on her return from her excursion, and until then had been sitting upstairs with her. The rogue Ilyusha seemed, too, as though he could not keep from laughing as he looked at his instructresses. It seemed as though the three of them had prepared a very amusing joke which they meant to play now. … I had forgotten Bahtcheyev. He was sitting on a chair at a little distance, still cross and red in the face; holding his tongue, sulking, blowing his nose and altogether playing a very gloomy part at the family festivity. Near him Yezhevikin was fidgeting about; he was fidgeting about everywhere, however, kissing the hands of Madame la Générale and of the visitors, whispering something to Miss Perepelitsyn, showing attention to Foma Fomitch, in fact he was all over the place. He, too, was awaiting Ilyusha’s verses with great interest, and at my entrance flew to greet me with bows as a mark of the deepest respect and devotion. Altogether there was nothing to show that he had come to protect his daughter, and to take her from Stepantchikovo for ever.
“Here he is!” cried my uncle gleefully on seeing me. “Ilyusha has got a poem for us, that’s something unexpected, a real surprise! I am overpowered, my boy, and sent for you on purpose, and have put off the verses till you came… . Sit down beside me! Let us listen. Foma Fomitch, confess now, it must have been you who put them all up to it to please an old fellow like me. I’ll wager that is how it is!”
Since my uncle was talking in such a tone and voice in Foma’s room one would have thought that all must be well. But unluckily my uncle was, as Mizintc hikov expressed it, incapable of reading any man’s face. Glancing at Foma’s face, I could not help admitting that Mizintchikov was right and that something was certainly going to happen. …
“Don’t trouble about me, Colonel,” Foma answered in a faint voice, the voice of a man forgiving his enemies. “I approve of the surprise, of course; it shows the sensibility and good principles of your children … Poetry is of use, too, even for the pronunciation… . But I have not been busy over verses this morning, Yegor Ilyitch; I have been praying …
you know that. … I am ready to listen to the verses, however.”
Meanwhile I had congratualted Ilyusha and kissed him.
“Quite so, Foma, I beg your pardon I Kiss him once more, though I am sure of your affection, Foma! Kiss him once more, Seryozha! Look what a fine big boy! Come, begin, Ilyusha! What is it about? I suppose it is something solemn from Lomonosov?”
And my uncle drew himself up with a dignified air. He could scarcely sit still in his seat for impatience and delight.
“No, papa, not from Lomonosov,” said Sashenka, hardly able to suppress her laughter; “but as you have been a soldier and fought the enemy, Ilyusha has learnt a poem about warfare… The siege of Pamba, papa!”
“The siege of Pamba! I don’t remember it… . What is this Pamba, do you know, Ilyusha? Something heroic, I suppose.”
And my uncle drew himself up again.
“Begin, Ilyusha!” Sasha gave the word of command.
Ilyusha began in a little, clear, even voice, without stops or commas, as small children generally recite verses they have learned by heart —
“Nine long years Don Pedro Gomez Has besieged the fort of Pamba, On a diet of milk supported. And Don Pedro’s gallant warriors, Brave Castilians, full nine thousand, All to keep the vow they’ve taken Taste no bread nor other victuals, Milk they drink and milk alone.”
“What? What’s that about milk?” cried my uncle, looking at me in perplexity.
“Go on reciting, Ilyusha!” cried Sashenka.
“Every day Don Pedro Gomez, In his Spanish cloak enveloped, Bitterly his lot bewails. Lo, the tenth year is approaching; Still the fierce Moors are triumphant; And of all Don Pedro’s army Only nineteen men are left. …”
“Why, it’s a regular string of nonsense!” cried my uncle uneasily. “Come, that’s impossible. Only nineteen men left out of a whole army, when there was a very considerable corps before? What is the meaning of it, my boy?”
But at that point Sasha could not contain herself, and went off into the most open and childish laughter; and though there was nothing very funny, it was impossible not to laugh too as one looked at her.
“They are funny verses, papa,” she cried, highly delighted with her childish prank. “The author made them like that on purpose to amuse everybody.”
“Oh! Funny!” cried my uncle, with a beaming face. “Comic, you mean! That’s just what I thought… . Just so, just so, funny! And very amusing, extremely amusing: he starved all his army on milk owing to some vow. What possessed them to take such a vow? Very witty, isn’t it, Foma? You see, mamma, these are jesting verses, such as authors sometimes do write, don’t they, Sergey? Extremely amusing. Well, well, Ilyusha, what next?”
“Only nineteen men are left! Them Don Pedro doth assemble And says to them: ‘Noble Nineteen! Let us raise aloft our standards! Let us blow on our loud trumpets! And with clashing of our cymbals Let us from Pamba retreat! Though the fort we have not taken, Yet with honour still untarnished We can swear on faith and conscience That our vow we have not broken; Nine long years we have not eaten, Not a morsel have we eaten, Milk we’ve drunk and milk alone!’”
“What a noodle! What comfort was it for him that he had drunk milk for nine years?” my uncle broke in again. “What is there virtuous in it? He would have done better to have eaten a whole sheep, and not have been the death of people I Excellent! capital! I see, I see now: it’s a satire on … what do they call it? an allegory, isn’t it? And perhaps aimed at some foreign general,” my uncle added, addressing me, knitting hia brows significantly and screwing up his eyes, “eh? What do you think? But of course a harmless, good, refined satire that injures nobody! Excellent! excellent, and what matters most, it is refined. Well, Ilyusha, go on. Ah, you rogues, you rogues!” he added with feeling, looking at Sasha and stealthily also at Nastenka, who blushed and smiled.
“And emboldened by that saying, Those nineteen Castilian warriors, Each one swaying in his saddle, Feebly shouted all together: ‘Sant’ Iago Compostello! Fame and glory to Don Pedro I Glory to the Lion of Castile!’ And his chaplain, one Diego, Through his teeth was heard to mutter: ‘But