#hussar au would be the names but in german :) | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

kikizoshi · 4 years ago

Text

Dostoyevsky’s Proposal

Written in the style of War and Peace. In this AU, Fyodor’s position is pretty much like an unmarried woman in the 19th century, as are many men in his time.

@poppirocks - Congrats on 400, and here’s to many more :)

~2.5k

“How kind of you to join me, Nikolai Vasilievich. I trust you’ll stay long?”

Dostoyevsky smiled, welcoming his guest into the drawing-room.

“Not at all, not at all!” Gogol waved his arms in amiable protest. “That is, not at all of kindness, of course I’ll stay! If anything, I’m the one humbled by your kindness of honouring me with an invitation.”

Dostoyevsky laughed softly. “You say that, and yet what if I should have invited you a week prior, when I sent out all of my other invitations? Surely you would have… taken ill. From the excitement, I mean.”

“Of course, of course,” Gogol dismissed playfully, “From excitement, or some spring fever. I might’ve been pulled away but look--” he spread his arms wide, “here I am, a whole man, with no need for worry.”

“And what a man you are,” Dostoyevsky smiled graciously. His comment, though perhaps a bit odd, was quite in-keeping with their relationship. Ten years had passed since either had seen the other, and though they sent frequent letters, meeting once more was a clean breath of fresh air.

“Sit, please.” Dostoyevsky insisted. “No, not there, that chair is horribly uncomfortable. Here, on the chaise with me. Don’t worry, no one will talk. There’s no reason to.” The tan-and-gold chaise in question, situated as it was very near to a piano, rendered its occupants practically unhearable should the piano be occupied as well. For this event, Dostoyevsky’s trusted servant, Vanya, happened to be performing a string of popular and robust German compositions.

“Now, I’m sure you’ve wondered why I invited you here…” He paused politely, and Gogol nodded with evident interest. “Well, I’ll tell you. I have a proposition. Not a horrid one, please, don’t give me such a vile look. I know how you love games. And as you know, I have a love for you, extending to your games, but moreso my love is in myself, and I too have a fondness for certain types of games...”

“And so your point?” Gogol laughed. “I should think we know each other enough to forgo the formalities by now.”

“Very well then... I’ll tell you plainly.” Dostoyevsky turned, so as to be sure to be heard by Gogol. “I propose a roulette, only not in a casino, but with a gun, in my chambers. I have a revolver. American, I think.”

Gogol smiled, amusement crinkling in his eyes, “Of course he wouldn’t know the maker of his own pistol.”

“Do you mind?”

“Oh, no, don’t mind me!” Gogol said merrily, “Please, continue.”

“Yes, so as I was saying, I propose that sort of game.”

“So what, you’d like me dead?” Gogol asked, though not without humour. “Or you want me to kill you? Why not just have a duel, then?”

“I don’t want a /duel/,” Dostoyevsky spat the word out, as though even speaking it was beneath him, “And my aim isn’t for one of our deaths. No, what interests me is a certain… other thing, which will become clearer to you later in the night. For now, however, I ask you to humour me blindly, as your friend, and trust that I shan’t lead you astray.”

“He speaks clearly and earnestly,” said Gogol, “and yet I wonder still at his intentions. If you truly don’t wish for my death--which you’ve stated implicitly enough--then, well, what else am I to make of it? Forgive my saying so, but is there any other conclusion I could draw?”

“Perhaps not for the time being, which is why I beg you again for your trust. I’ll bow for it if you like, only not here. In fact, please follow me directly, as we’ve no reason to waste another moment.” And there he stood, gesturing for Gogol to do the same.

“I say, you’ve surely gone mad.”

“And what if I have,” Dostoyevsky replied with a smile, “There’s nothing awful about that, is there?”

“Nothing awful? What an idea! But come, sit, for I will not follow you, not for anything. If you put a gun to my head I wouldn’t follow you now,” Gogol laughed as he said the last part, evidently taken with his own joke. “So here, your chaise is ever so comfortable, and why not enjoy it a while with an old friend, before getting down to business? No, don’t pull on my arm. It won’t do you any good and you’ll cause a scene. Sit, I say!”

Indeed, Gogol wasn’t wrong in his assumption of a scene; the two of them had gathered a sort of crowd consisting of side-eyed stares and occasional whispers. Dostoyevsky, defeated, sat with as much decorum as he could muster next to Gogol, and began to tap his leg in agitation. Gogol smiled and lounged back.

“Now,” he continued, “Surely you’ve other matters to discuss than only a gun-based roulette.”

“What would you have me say?”

“Hm, well, tell me of your engagement! There’s no end of gossip there. At least, the rumours I’ve heard are enough to fill a quarter of the River Styx.”

Dostoyevsky further deflated. “But they’re just that: rumours. What’s more to say?”

“Oh, but there’s more to it than that! Much more!” Gogol exclaimed. “For one, I heard that Princess K----- has her eye on you. Though not only one eye, from the way people talk, her vision is quite melonomic towards anyone else! And then there are the two princes, who for a long time now have fought mercilessly for your favour. They’ve even duelled, not once, but twice! Then there are the clerks, the merchants, some hussars…” (He named a considerable list which I will spare the reader.) “In fact, I’d say the whole of Petersburg has its eye on you! And you ask, ‘What’s more to say’.”

“I see you’ve soaked up quite the bit of gossip, despite the short time since your arrival. It’s strange we’ve not met before. With how you talk, surely you’ve attended several of Anna Pavlovna’s soirees. Yet I’ve not seen a hint of you anywhere.”

“Oh, well that was a purposeful slip,” Gogol laughed. “Yes, I did go, to her soirees and many other social gatherings, but my heart was not in it. I spoke dully about politics, gave only the blandest of smiles to those who approached me, half the time I felt horribly faint... And how could I let my dearest friend see me in such a state? No, even if I was presentable to most, well, ‘most’ see nothing but what’s put in front of them. Yes, we’re all ostriches with our heads in the sand. Stick us with a hot iron, even, and we’ll just bury deeper.”

“Maybe so,” Dostoyevsky said, “but then, you’re still a bird in that way, so perhaps half of your goal is already realised.”

Gogol stared blankly at Dostoyevsky for a time. “What use is there in being an ostrich?” He asked finally. “Ostriches cannot fly.”

Dostoyevsky failed to hide a coy smirk. “They’re rather adept at running, however. You could easily run, run, run away from every pressing issue--you’d leave any cage shrouded in dust long before it thought of imprisoning you. You’d be quite tasty, too.”

Gogol raised his eyes suggestively. “You wouldn’t need such a form to taste me. And in any case, if being an ostrich is all as you say it is, then am I not already one?”

“Oh, no, you’re still quite a man, I’m afraid. Though that, too, is perhaps a good thing. If you are a man, then, naturally, you’ll have the capacity to rationalise emotionally and mentally through your vices. One day you may even find grace.”

Gogol sighed wearily. “Why is it,” said he, “that it may only be one at a time between the two of us who is allowed to be happy?”

Dostoyevsky gave him a pitying look. “A balance you seem to keep readily.”

“You suppose?” Gogol sighed, leaning his head back, aggravated, against the mahogany of the chaise’s back, and closed his eyes.

Silence passed several moments like that; the chatter of the guests and gliding piano notes created a white noise which transported both men into a meditational state. The underlying melancholy both easily felt, yet they passed through it in their own ways: Dostoyevsky letting it wash over him and Gogol stamping it under his boot, grinding it under his teeth for good measure. Eventually, as Dostoyevsky nearly felt himself be lost completely, he broke the spell.

“If you wish to know the truth,” he said, “then I’ll speak it plainly: I’ve no suitable suitor. There have been rumours of such a thing, but they are mostly in jest. If some have been taken by them, and took such things seriously, it still means nothing--there isn’t one man or woman in our town who wishes to make me their betrothed. For who would?” He smiled a self-deprecating smile. “An invalid doesn’t make for a good match.”

“Ah yes! Who would want an idiot of a betrothed--but a rich idiot is another case entirely--but for your money. Last you wrote, you explained that your dowry had been raised, so that it now lands something over seventy-thousand. I know thirty men alone who would marry for that--ten of a higher class than you, for your family is held in quite high esteem.”

Dostoyevsky grimaced. “Yes, and in fact, you are quite right about that. And in fact, I’ve met with several good men who I’ll be happy to accept should one give an offer…”

“So what is the matter with you?”

“Yes, indeed, what is the matter…” Dostoyevsky trailed off once more, bringing up a finger to his teeth and gnawing, first gently but soon quite viciously, at it. It wasn’t until his reddened finger appeared just about to split that he forced it from his mouth to continue. “What is the matter, is that… I don’t wish to marry for such a… Which isn’t to say that I don’t wish to marry for my family, or that I wish to marry for love. I know the ridiculity of both ideas, and neither are particularly accurate. Only… I cannot shake the idea that in marrying, I’ll be losing something… Something that I can’t define will be lost, or perhaps it won’t… The whole matter gives off a horrible feeling, as though nothing can be done and, no matter what, something awful can and will come of it.” Again, he paused. Looking to Gogol, he hoped the other would say something, but as the look on his face was merely passively attentive, Dostoyevsky sighed and continued.

“There was another time,” Dostoyevsky said, “when I considered marrying, although marriage wasn’t a possibility for that man, and I’m quite sure--as I was at the time--that such a union would only have ended in tragedy. Still… That man, from some country far southward of ours and across an ocean, he was the only one I’ve met who could challenge me at chess. We went on for hours at a time, and each second felt simultaneously as a blink and as an era. Rarely had I been so excited. And at that time, genuinely, I considered making /him/ an offer, as unconventional as it might have been… Of course, I fiercely hated him too. He was an incorrigible man, a flirt and with so much bravado I feared his chest couldn’t bear the weight, and above all he was barely a noble. There was no hope in it but still… I dreamed...

“But now I am twenty-two, and in not four years I shall be twenty-six. I should have married years ago, but I’ve never had the heart for it, and I fear my reasons are nothing but selfish. It’s my vice, but… I’m afraid. I’m afraid to change my mind, for what if the awful does happen… Though even then it should not matter. I should trust in my husband, and if all does not come to be exactly as I wish it, then God has sent the trial for my own sake.” Dostoyevsky’s tone was convincing, as though he himself did not believe his words but was desperately trying to rectify the fact.

Gogol, after a moment, laughed. “If beating you over chess is the only prerequisite, even Vanya could become your groom. Why be so pessimistic, in that case?”

“You think Vanya would beat me?” Dostoyevsky shook his head seriously. “No--he wouldn’t do it. No one here would, for they are too full of virtue. You alone are the only man here who would think of such a thing.”

“Heh, well,” Gogol tapped his temple with a chuckle, “perhaps I should never have been invited at all, if I lack such virtue… And yet you speak of it not as something terrible, but rather as a curious state which you’re happy to welcome into not only your drawing room, but your private chambers! Be careful now--I fear the Devil is whispering in your ear.”

“Well now,” Dostoyevsky laughed, “And what of Turgenev? He has far worse problems than I, in that regard.”

“Oh? Poor, poor Turgenev, we mustn’t speak of him.” Gogol’s eyes practically glittered, a twist of amusement swirling down his face and throughout his being. He was evidently vastly excited to speak about Turgenev.

“Maybe so, but please, explain to a poor invalid.”

“Oh, if I must! I see there is no getting round you.” Gogol threw his hands up, feigning coercion, and readily continued. “You see, there was this new woman--I know not her name--who took him quite quickly and even more thoroughly. She not only agreed to take him in as her slave (a notion, if you’ll remember, that his dear Victoria--lover of a distant past and oh! how he’ll miss her--blanched at in the beginning), but this new she, how shall I say…” Gogol looked around, as though noticing their company for the first time, and met with several curious (and several accusing) stares. “She… gave to him a… new, and hitherto unfathomed ‘pastry’ to which, I fear, he was quite addicted from the first lick. Now, there’s no saving him. Bless his poor soul.”

“You speak as though from experience.”

“Oh! Can you imagine? Heh-heh, no no, I can’t--it simply couldn’t happen. Now, with someone else, in a different place, I’m sure my feelings would be quite different,” Again, a suggestive look was sent towards Dostoyevsky, “but as for him? No. I could never.”

Dostoyevsky huffed softly, a gentle, amused sheen shone in his eyes. “I’d love to hear more, if you’d be so kind, although I fear such conversation is rather intense for settings such as this…”

“Oh, anything is too much for everyone nowadays! Bless our Russia… But, won’t your appearance be missed? Everyone is here by your invitation, and what would they think if their dear leader were to leave them so suddenly?”

“They’ll think nothing of it--I won’t be missed. Come.” Again, Dostoyevsky rose, and again, he extended his hand to Gogol, which this time was accepted, and the two men left the drawing-room. One of the men’s thoughts rested in a dark cabinet beside a small, silver revolver.

27 notes · View notes