This was rather a melancholy reflection.
[CHAPTER XIX]
There was hardly any work in the market-square during the winter, and instead I had innumerable trivial duties to perform in the house. They swallowed up the whole day, but the evenings were left free. Once more I read to the household novels which were unpalatable to me, from the "Neva" and the "Moscow Gazette"; but at night I occupied myself by reading good books and by attempts at writing poetry.
One day when the women had gone out to vespers and my master was kept at home through indisposition, he asked me:
"Victor is making fun of you because he says you write poetry, Pyeshkov. Is that true? Well then, read it to me!"
It would have been awkward to refuse, and I read several of my poetical compositions. These evidently did not please him, but he said:
"Stick to it! Stick to it! You may become a Pushkin; have you read Pushkin?"
"'Do the goblins have funeral rites?
Are the witches given in marriage?'"
In his time people still believed in goblins, but he did not believe in them himself. Of course he was just joking.