By Fyodor Dostoevsky, Richard Pevear, Larissa Volokhonsky
The narrator and protagonist of Dostoevsky’s novel The Adolescent (first released in English as A uncooked Youth) is Arkady Dolgoruky, a na•ve 19-year-old boy bursting with ambition and reviews. The illegitimate son of a dissipated landowner, he's torn among his wish to divulge his father’s wrongdoing and the will to win his love. He travels to St. Petersburg to confront the daddy he slightly is familiar with, encouraged through an inchoate dream of communion and armed with a mysterious record that he believes provides him energy over others. This new English model via the main acclaimed of Dostoevsky’s translators is a masterpiece of pathos and excessive comedy.
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I repeat, it’s very difficult to write in Russian: here I’ve scribbled a whole three pages on how I’ve spent all my life being angry over my last name, and meanwhile the reader has surely concluded that I’m angry precisely because I’m not a prince, but simply Dolgoruky. To explain again and justify myself would be humiliating for me. IV AND SO, AMONG this household, of whom there were a great many besides Makar Ivanovich, there was a girl, and she was already about eighteen years old when the fifty-year-old Makar Dolgoruky suddenly showed the intention of marrying her.
I know positively from several hands that my mother was not a beauty, though I haven’t seen her portrait from that time, which exists somewhere. That means it was impossible to fall in love with her at first sight. For mere “amusement,” Versilov could have chosen another girl, and there was one like that, and unmarried besides, Anfisa Konstantinovna Sapozhkov, a house maid. And a man who arrived with Anton the Wretch and, on the basis of his rights as a landowner, violated the sacredness of marriage, even though it was of his household serf, would be very ashamed in his own eyes, because, I repeat, no more than a few months ago, that is, twenty years later, he spoke extremely seriously of this Anton the Wretch.
That it was to ruin—that I hope my mother has always understood; only when she went to it, she wasn’t thinking of ruin at all; but it’s always like that with these “defenseless” ones: they know it’s ruin, and yet they get into it. Having sinned, they immediately confessed. He wittily recounted to me how he had sobbed on Makar Ivanovich’s shoulder, summoning him to his study on purpose for the occasion, and she—at the time she was lying unconscious somewhere in her maid’s closet . . VI BUT ENOUGH OF questions and scandalous details.