Since I finished reading Walter Benjamin’s “The Storyteller”, which I discuss here, I have been meaning to read some Leskov, and translate it as well if it weren’t too hard. I’m not sure whether the piece I chose was necessarily the best introduction, but I found it very funny, and hope I conveyed that a little in the translation. A few comments of my own follow the main text.
A Righteous Man – Nikolai Leskov
A Vision at Midnight
I have heard it said often and indeed several times read it too: that he has “vanished” – “the righteous man” has vanished, and he has vanished not only completely without a trace, but also without any hope of ever finding him again in Russia. This is grave news, and at the same time one didn’t quite want to believe it. Perhaps, though, the matter depends more on those people who are seeking him: they are looking even though they don’t know how to find such a “righteous man”. All this makes me remember the old vaudeville “A Peaceful Night in Sherbakovii Lane”. There, if I remember right, there was a couplet, going thus:
“And even on Sherbakovii Lane
You could find a goodly soul.”
What that means is that the author of this piece knew how to find “a good man” even in such a small and dirty lane as that one. And so, how could it be the case that there cannot be found in all of Russia but one “righteous man”? And what sort of justness are we expecting from this “righteous man” anyway? That he “in the face of social injustice finds within himself courage and determination to say publicly to the people: “You are making a mistake and are going on the path of error – but look: here is the path to righteousness”?”
I am citing this from an article I found in one public news organ whose name I feel no need to mention. I can vouch but one thing: that these printed words I have just repeated seemed to a great many to be deeply true. But I remained biased against them. I believed that a righteous man still survived, somewhere out there, and that I would soon meet him – and indeed I did. I saw him in a battle with the whole of society, which he strove to defeat on his own and without fear. This is how it happened.
It was the summer that has just passed by. I had left Petersburg with one rather devout friend, who had enticed me to have a look at a big religious celebration out in the country. The way there wasn’t particularly long or tiresome: one cool evening we sat down in a carriage in Petersburg, and the next morning we were already at the place. And within half an hour of crossing the threshold my religious friend had already quarrelled with some church sexton or other! (He had apparently said something disrespectful to him).
When evening came it found both of us in our room and my fellow traveller sitting and busily writing a letter of complaint back to the capital about this poor man, so I went down to breathe some fresh air and also have a look at what exactly it was that people got up to out here. I was accompanying an easy-going artist I had met who said he’d come here to “read his scenes” to the public.
At such an hour back home in Petersburg all respectable people are busy, as is well known, out in restaurant gardens eating, and here it turned out that people were doing just the same. It thus happened, then, that we landed without any misunderstandings right in the public garden, where my acquaintance, the artist, was supposed to be showing off his talents.
He wasn’t a newcomer like me – he knew a lot of people here, and they knew him too.
The garden, into which we had arrived, was rather large for a provincial town, though it was rather similar to a mere boulevard from my perspective. In any case, to the left there were entrances to the place where this evening there happened to be a paid concert going on, as a result everything was closed off. The paying public went through a single middle way, shaped like a concave semicircle. Around the gates were placed plank booths for selling tickets, and a number of policemen and idlers were standing there too, the latter having no chance of getting through to the garden due to lacking the necessary funds.
In front of this entrance to the main garden there was a small front garden, but I couldn’t tell what it was growing or why it was here and fenced round in the first place. Its relation to the larger garden was like that of a waiting room in a bathhouse to the baths themselves.
The artist went through according to his “special right”, while I bought a ticket, and we entered through the gates to the accompaniment of the Skobelevskii March[1], after which there were cheers of “hoorah” and new demands for the exact same thing again.
The public were out in great numbers, and all of them were pressed together on a small lawn, in the corner of which there was a wooden restaurant, made to look like a pagan temple. On one side of it a summer theatre had been erected from wood panels, and this was where the performance was now taking place and where a little while later my Petersburg orator ought to be doing his readings. Meanwhile, on the other side there was the “shell” where the military band was located and busy playing the march.
The society here clearly belonged to several different ranks: there were petty councillors, officers from the army, merchants and the “grey people” of the petty bourgeoisie. In the more obvious places were packed the traders, while in a far corner a regimental clerk and a certain sort of woman were hanging around.
Decrepit little tables covered by dirty cloths had been haphazardly thrown about, all inconveniently near to one another and all of them occupied. The people cheerfully gave me a public demonstration of what exactly it was they did here. In great demand it seemed was tea, beer, and vodka, although they called the latter “Simple person’s wine”, as if it would sound more respectable that way. Only in one place did I notice someone who was managing himself in a way suggestive of greater wealth: before him stood a bottle of champagne and cognac, and a teapot with boiling water for making punch. There were rather a lot of empty glasses around him, but he was at that moment sitting alone.
This guest had a remarkable appearance which soon thrust itself upon one’s sight. For one, he was gigantic, with a thicket of thick hair which already had flashes of grey in it among the black. His dress was extraordinarily elaborate, colourful, and tasteless. He was wearing a bright and deep blue linen shirt with a high upturned and starched collar. On his neck a white foulard with brown spots was carelessly hung, and over his shoulders was slung a jacket in the Manchester style. Then, on his chest was an extraordinarily massive golden chain with a diamond and a great number of dangling pendants. Even in terms of his footwear he was extremely original: he had on his feet such low boots that one might sooner have taken them for slippers, and between them and his pantaloons flashed bright stripped red cotton socks, just as if he had scratched his legs until they bled.
He was sitting at the biggest table, which was placed in the very best location – just beneath a large old lime tree for shade – and it seemed that he was in a state of nervous agitation.
The artist, who had accompanied me thus far, as soon as he saw this most original specimen squeezed my hand quietly and murmured to me:
“Well, well, well. Now this is something unexpected!”
“Who is he?”
“This, my dear friend, is a subject[2] of the finest sort.”
“What do you mean?”
“What I mean is that he is extremely curious. This is Martin Ivanich – a nobleman, merchant, and extremely prosperous fellow and an absolute nutcase to boot. In common parlance among our people he is often known as “Martin the righteous”, because he loves to tell everyone the truth. His fame, just like that of Ersha Ershovich[3], has spread along every river and port of our dear Russia. And he is not without an education either – he knows a lot of Pushkin and Griboedov[4] by heart, and if you get him to have a drink he’ll start to draw upon “Woe from Wit” or something from Gogol. Indeed, it looks as though he’s already started with his spree – he’s already sitting without his hat.”
“Well, it has gotten hot.”
“No – he always brings another bottle with him hidden under his hat, just in case they refuse to give him any more at the buffet.”
The artist stopped a lackey, just at that minute going past, and asked: “Has Martin Ivanovich got a bottle underneath his hat?”
“Sir… I don’t know what you mean…”
“Well, that means he’s ready,” the artist turned back to me, “and soon we two will witness a righteous performance of the most unexpected and noblest sort. We ought to go and have a chat with him.”
The artist went towards Martin Ivanovich and I trudged after him, stopping close by so as to observe their meeting.
The artist stopped in front of Martin and, after taking off his own hat, with a smile said: “I bow to your honour.”
Martin Ivanovich in response to this extended a hand to him and immediately brought him down onto the empty chair next to him, then answered:
“”I beg you to join me” – this said Sobakevich[5]”
“But I don’t want to,” Uttered my friend, but at that moment a glass of punch was already sitting before him, and Martin once more repeated the quote.
“I beg you to join me” – said Sobakevich.”
“No, truly I cannot. I have to go and read now.”
Martin poured out the punch onto the ground and muttered some unpleasantry or other befitting a Nozdrev[6].
I didn’t much like this – I understood why everybody ran away from this antique. As an original he certainly was an original, but it seemed to me that within him was contained not only the character of Sobakevich, but also Konstantin Konstandzhoglo[7], who boiled fish with their skins still on. Only, this Konstandzhoglo now had drunk a little more and in an even less pleasant mood he began to slag off the whole of society. He talked of how they “all are wretches and scoundrels”; and when the public once again demanded the Skobelevskii March he suddenly stood up without a cause and shushed the lot of them.
“Why’d he do that?” I asked my friend as he fled the vicinity.
“Because he is now going to cast a little righteousness in their direction. But anyway, we should head into the theatre.”
I left with my friend and made myself comfortable in his dressing room. We sang, read, and once more went out into the garden.
The spectacle was finished. The public had markedly thinned out and, as they were leaving, once more demanded the same Skobelevskii March. Without difficulty we found ourselves a table, but luckily or unluckily we had ended up right next to our Martin Ivanovich again. He, while we had been away, had managed to increase his sensibility still further, and his sense of justice, it appeared, now demanded a vocal stand from him. He now no longer sat, but stood and declaimed not poetry, but a prose excerpt which really made you admit that he was very well-read for someone of his milieu. He was rolling off from memory phrases from the praised word of Zakharov[8] to Catherine, which was located in “Considerations on the Matter of New and Old Style”.
“”Suvorov[9], so spoke Catherine, show us! He rose like a tumultuous whirlpool and he blasted the Turks from their guarded borders; like a hawk he fell upon his prey. Whoever he saw he sent to flight; whoever he met he conquered; and to whomever he brought his thunder he annihilated. There were none who escaped. Europa herself was left trembling… and…””
But just at that moment the public once more demanded the Skobelevskii March, and once the orchestra had started fulfilling this request it was no longer possible to discern whatever Martin Ivanovich was declaiming. Only when the march had finished did his words reach us again:
““-Thus, must we honour our forebears and never think too highly of our own poor selves!””
What is this man trying to get at?” I asked my friend.
“Verily, verily, my good fellow, he is trying to achieve his justice.”
“What does he want it for now?”
“For him it is essential: the man is righteous, and you can see it on his face. Look look…” The storyteller finished, and I saw that Martin Ivanovich had suddenly stood up from his place and with rapid if tipsy steps had gone after an older man in military uniform who at that moment just happened to be walking past.
Martin Ivanovich caught up with this stranger (who happened to be the bandmaster of the orchestra), grabbed him from behind by the collar and shouted: “”No, no, you shan’t get away from me” – so said Nozdrev”.
The bandmaster smiled with a look of embarrassment but asked that he be released.
“No, I shall not let you go,” Answered Martin Ivanovich. “You are tormenting me!” And he forced him down towards the table and shouted again: “Drink to the insult to our affronted forebears and the darkness now covering our future descendants!”
“Who did I insult?”
“Who? Me, Suvorov, and all the righteous people of our land!”
“I didn’t think I… I wasn’t suggesting to…”
“Then for what in God’s name were you playing that itch of a march for the entire evening long?”
“The public requested it.”
“You are tormenting me with this injustice.”
“The public requested it.”
“Despise the public, then, if they are unjust!”
“What is this injustice you are going on about?”
“Why aren’t you playing Suvorov’s March, eh?”
“The public did not request it.”
“I suggest you clear up the matter with them. Play the Skobelevskii March once, then Suvorov’s March twice, because he waged war more than him. Yes! Now I shall let you go – head back right at this moment and play Suvorov’s March!”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“There’s no such thing as Suvorov’s March.”
“How could there be no march for Suvorov? “Suvorov, spoke Catherine, show us how it’s done! He blew things up, swooped down upon them, destroyed them, conquered them, gave a shake to Europa!…” and you’re saying he doesn’t have a march?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“The public hasn’t requested one.”
“Aha! Well, I will show them what’s what!”
And Martin Ivanovich suddenly let go of the bandmaster, stood up on top of the table and cried out: “You public! You are unfair, and what’s more, you are a pig!”[10]
Everything suddenly grew noisy and people started moving about, while near the table where Martin Ivanovich the Righteous was continuing his speech a policeman had appeared and was now demanding that the orator lower himself back to the ground. Martin did not comply. He defended himself by kicking about with his legs and loudly continued to reproach everyone for their injustice towards Suvorov. He finished with a challenge for a duel, throwing down one of his shoes instead of a glove. A couple of townsfolk who had come to the rescue grabbed at his legs, but they couldn’t put an end to the mayhem: into the air there flew yet another boot, the entire table flipped over, and the sounds of smashing cutlery could be heard alongside the splashing of water and cognac… in a word, it was a right mess… at the buffet table for some reason the lights all momentarily went out and a everyone began a stampede towards the exit, while on their platform the musicians decided have a go playing their finale: “Only Gloried is our God in Zion.”[11]
My friend and I joined the handful of curious ones who had not rushed to leave and were now awaiting the denouement. We were all tightly packed in that place were the police were trying to restrain Martin Ivanovich, who was still managing to keep them off him and all the time was heroically defending the matter, crying: “Catherine spoke: Suvorov, show us… Explosions, swooping, annihilation, shaking!”
And then he was silent, either because he was tired or because something had finally managed to interrupt him.
In the darkness that now followed it was hard to see who had a hold of whom, but then the voice of the righteous man resounded anew: “Stop strangling me: I am on the side of righteousness!”
“There isn’t any justice here” Said the policeman.
“I am not speaking to you, but to the whole of society!”
“Maybe if you just go over here…”
“And I will go – but only get your hands off – come on! I’m going… hands off! No need to embrace me.”
“Gentlemen, please move out of the way.”
“I am not scared… Why is there no march for Suvorov?”
“Go complain to the justice of the peace.”
“And I will complain! Suvorov conquered more!”
“The justice will decide the matter.”
“The justice is an idiot! Where is that devil of a man to learn about it?”
“Well just wait and see!… it’s all in the protocol.”
“Well I’m not scared of your justice. I’m going!” Martin shouted. He threw off the arms of the policemen and went with big steps towards the exit. He was still not wearing any shoes – he was walking with only those multicoloured socks…
The police didn’t keep off and tried to encircle him.
From among the rows of the public who were still there someone cried out: “Martin Ivanovich, go and find your shoes… you need to put something on your feet.”
He stopped for a moment, but then he waved his hands and carried on, shouting: “It’s nothing… if I am a righteous man then I should be walking like this. Justice always walks without boots.”
At the gates they forced Martin into a carriage with a policeman and then they drove off.
The public then went off to wherever each of them needed to be.
“Well, all things considered, his reasoning was just,” Said one stranger to another as they overtook us.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, it’s just like he said – Suvorov conquered more than Skobolev after all – why shouldn’t they have played his march?”
“There isn’t an arrangement.”
“So that’s your injustice right there.”
“Eh, shut up. It’s not for us to bother with it. Maybe the justice of the peace will have to worry about it, but not you. Who cares about being just or not?”
My friend took me by the arm and whispered: “If you want to know – this is the real truth.”
While I was getting undressed in my room I heard two people going along the corridor, quietly discussing something. They decided to part ways by the entrance to the room next door and finished with the following: “Well, however you want to look at it, in his drunken state there was some justice alright.”
“Yes, well, maybe you’re right, but the devil was in it too.”
And they wished each other good night.
[1] Mikhail Dmitrievich Skobelev (1843-1882), recently deceased at the time the story takes place, had been a successful general during the Russo-Turkish War of 1877-1878.
[2] The Russian has “suzhekt” a pun on “sub’ekt” meaning a subject, and “syuzhet”, meaning a plot.
[3] Ersha Ershovich was a character in a popular satire of the 17th Century
[4] Pushkin is the most famous Russian writer, equivalent in stature to Shakespeare in English. Alexander Sergeevich Griboedov (1795-1829) was a diplomat, poet, and dramatist. His comedy “Woe from Wit” is extremely popular in Russia and has had a huge influence on literature ever since its publication.
[5] A character in Gogol’s Dead Souls.
[6] Nozdrev is a character in Dead Souls as well. He is two-faced and superficial.
[7] See note 5
[8] I. S. Zakharov was a famously good stylist according to the work mentioned
[9] A V Suvorov was general under Catherine, and among the most well-known generals of the Imperial period altogether. Far more important that Skobelevskii.
[10] “You are swine” is another translation, but I thought using pig was more funny. In the Russian he is speaking to the public as if it were an individual, including using the second-person singular form of “you”.
[11] A religious hymn by M. M. Kheraskov
Comments and (brief) Analysis
As I mentioned above, this is the first Leskov piece I’ve read, so there’s only so much I can say about it. He’s not a particularly well-known writer outside of his homeland, and then only for “Lady Macbeth of Mtensk”. He writes simply, and that gives me an advantage translating the piece, because I have less recourse to the dictionary or my Russian friends. Still, I hadn’t anticipated Martin Ivanovich’s quotes when I started reading, and they were a bit trickier to translate – I did need help for those, because the Russian is much older than what I’m used to, being as it was from the 18th century.
More useful, probably, is to explain a few of the ways the story connects to Benjamin’s ideas of storytelling.
For one, the story is recounted as if it were a story from real life – and indeed, Leskov is recounting a largely real event, according to the notes in his collected works. The narrator explains how they heard about the story then tells the story itself, which is simply an event. He also tries to frame it, in the beginning, within moral questions. That is, the story has a moral – another key element for Benjamin. It is trying to tell us something, most obviously that there are still righteous people out there, though they may seem strange to us.
The story is also written simply. The language is of a low register, and indeed in recounting the speech of people the narrator even veers into coarse day-to-day language of the time. He doesn’t try to explain actions, or provide justifications – he lets the characters speak for themselves, and then the reader find their moral. Because of the lack of a psychological level – another distinguishing characteristic of stories as opposed to novels – there is a layer of ambiguity. Are we to treat Martin Ivanovich as a truly righteous person, or is there more irony involved? These questions depend on how the story is told – with each retelling, a narrator could focus on one or the other.
Though it is true that this is a story in a book, and thus it lacks some of the other traits that oral stories would, it nonetheless serves as a kind of base, which through real-life retellings, could be shaped and moulded into a truer story. Perhaps you, reader, could pass it off as one of your own experiences, the next time you find yourself enjoying an evening with your friends, and see what they think. 🙂
