[1]A double meaning is implied in Peredonov's use of the word, as the word "patchkatsya" means to soil oneself.
[1]A double meaning is implied in Peredonov's use of the word, as the word "patchkatsya" means to soil oneself.
[2]A musical instrument.
[2]A musical instrument.
Sasha left home after lunch and did not return at the appointed time, at seven; Kokovkina was worried:
"May God preserve him from meeting one of his masters in the street at a forbidden time! He'll be punished and I shall feel uncomfortable," she thought. Quiet boys always lived at her house and did not wander about at night. Kokovkina went to look for Sasha. Where else could he be except at the Routilovs'.
As ill luck would have it, Liudmilla that evening had forgotten to lock the door. Kokovkina entered, and what did she see? Sasha stood before the mirror in a woman's dress, waving a fan. Liudmilla was laughing and arranging ribbons at his brightly-coloured belt.
"Good heavens!" exclaimed Kokovkina in horror. "What's this? I was worried and came to look for him, and here he is acting a comedy. What a disgrace for him to dress himself in a skirt. And aren't you ashamed, Liudmilla Platonovna?"
Liudmilla was for a moment very embarrassed because of the suddenness of the thing, but soon recovered herself. She embraced Kokovkina with a laugh, sat her in a chair and invented an explanation:
"We are going to have a play at home—I shall be a boy and he'll be a girl and it'll be very amusing."
Sasha stood flushed and terrified, with tears in his eyes.
"What nonsense!" said Kokovkina angrily, "he ought to be studying his lessons and not waste his time play-acting. What will you think of next! Dress yourself at once, Aleksandr, and march home with me."
Liudmilla laughed loudly and gaily and kissed Kokovkina—and the old woman thought that the happy girl was very child-like, and that Sasha obediently carried out all her whims. Liudmilla's laughter, at this moment, showed this to be only a simple childish prank, for which they would only have to be lectured a little. And Kokovkina grumbled, assuming an angry face, but her feelings were already calmed down.
Sasha quickly redressed himself behind the screen, where Liudmilla's bed stood. Kokovkina took him off, and scolded him all the way home. Sasha felt ashamed and frightened and did not attempt to justify himself.
"And what will happen at home?" he thought timidly. At home, Kokovkina treated him sternly for the first time: she ordered him to get down on his knees. But Sasha had barely been in that position for a few moments when Kokovkina, softened by his repentant face and silent tears, released him. She said grumblingly:
"What a little lady-killer, you are! Your perfumes can be smelt a mile off!"
Sasha gracefully bent over and kissed her hand—and the courtesy of the punished boy touched her even more.
In the meantime a storm was gathering over Sasha. Varvara and Grushina composed and sent to Khripatch an anonymous letter to the effect that the schoolboy, Pilnikov, had been fascinated by the Routilov girl, that he spent whole evenings with her rather questionably. Khripatch collected a recent conversation. One evening at the house of the Marshal of the Nobility someone had thrown out an insinuation—which no one had taken up—about a girl who was in love with a schoolboy. The conversation had immediately passed to other subjects: in Khripatch's presence, everyone, acting on the unwritten law of people accustomed to good society, considered this an extremely awkward theme for discussion, and they assumed that this topic was not to be mentioned in the presence of women and that the rumour itself was trivial and very unlikely. Khripatch, of course, had noticed this but he was not so naive as to ask anyone. He was fully confident that he would know all about it soon, that all information came of itself in one way or another, but always in good season. Well, here was a letter which contained the expected information.
Khripatch did not for a moment believe that Pilnikov was guilty, and that his relations with Liudmilla were improper.
"This," he thought, "is one of Peredonov's stupid inventions and is nourished by Grushina's envy and spitefulness. But this letter shows that certain undesirable rumours are current, which might cast a reflection on the good name of thegymnasiaentrusted to me. And therefore measures must be taken."
First of all Khripatch invited Kokovkina to discuss with him the circumstances which had helped to give rise to these rumours.
Kokovkina already knew what was the trouble. She had been informed even more bluntly than the Head-Master. Grushina had waited for her in the street, entered into conversation, and told her that Liudmilla had already managed to corrupt Sasha. Kokovkina was dumbfounded. When she got home she showered reproaches upon Sasha. She was all the more vexed because this had happened almost before her eyes, and because Sasha had gone to the Routilovs' with her knowledge. Sasha pretended not to understand anything and he asked:
"What have I done wrong?"
Kokovkina was at a loss for a moment.
"What wrong? Don't you know yourself? Didn't I find you in a skirt not long ago? Have you forgotten, you shameless boy?"
"Yes, but what was especially wrong with that? And didn't you punish me for it? It wasn't as if I'd stolen the skirt!"
"Hark how he talks!" said Kokovkina in a distraught way. "I punished you, but not enough apparently."
"Well, punish me again," said Sasha defiantly, with the look of a person unjustly treated. "You forgave me yourself, and now it wasn't enough. I didn't ask you to forgive me—I would have knelt all the evening. And what's the good of scolding me all the time?"
"Yes, and everyone in town is talking about you and your Liudmillotchka."
"And what are they saying?" asked Sasha in an innocently inquisitive tone of voice.
Kokovkina was again at a loss.
"It's clear enough what they're saying! You know perfectly well what might be said of you. Very little that's good, you may be sure. You're up to mischief with your Liudmillotchka—that's what they're saying."
"Well, I won't get up to mischief again," Sasha promised as calmly as if the conversation concerned a game of "touch."
He assumed an expression of innocence, but his heart was heavy. He asked Kokovkina what they were saying and was afraid that he would hear it was something unpleasant. What could they be saying? Liudmillotchka's room faced the garden; it could not be seen from the street. Besides, Liudmillotchka always lowered the blinds. And if anyone had looked in, what could they say? Perhaps something annoying and insulting. Or perhaps they were only saying that he often went there.
And here on the next day Kokovkina received an invitation to go and see the Head-Master. The old woman was distraught. She did not even mention it to Sasha, but at the appointed time went quickly on her errand. Khripatch kindly and gently informed her of the anonymous letter he had received. She began to cry.
"Be calm, we're not accusing you of anything," said Khripatch. "We know you too well. Of course, you'll have to look after him a little more rigorously. But I want you to tell me now what actually has taken place."
Kokovkina came home with more reproaches for Sasha.
"I shall write to your aunt," she said, crying.
"I haven't done anything. Let Aunt come, I'm not afraid," said Sasha, and he began to cry also.
The next day Khripatch asked Sasha to come and see him and asked him dryly and sternly:
"I would like to know what sort of an acquaintance you have been cultivating in the town."
Sasha looked at the Head-Master with deceptive innocence and tranquil eyes.
"What sort of an acquaintance?" he said. "Olga Vassilyevna knows that I only go to my companions and to the Routilovs."
"Yes, precisely," continued Khripatch. "What do you do at the Routilovs?"
"Nothing in particular," replied Sasha with the same innocent look, "we mostly read. The Routilov sisters are fond of poetry. And I'm always home at seven o'clock."
"Perhaps not always?" asked Khripatch, fixing on Sasha a glance which he tried to make piercing.
"Yes, I was late once," said Sasha with the calm frankness of an innocent boy. "And Olga Vassilyevna gave it to me. But after that I wasn't late again."
Khripatch was silent. Sasha's calm answers left him rather nonplussed. In any case it would be necessary to give him a reprimand, but how and for what? He was afraid that he might suggest to the boy unwholesome thoughts which—so Khripatch believed—he had not had before; or that he might offend the boy; but he wanted to remove any unpleasantness which might in the future come from this acquaintance. Khripatch thought that an educator's business was a very difficult and responsible matter, especially if you have the honour of being the head of an educational establishment. This difficult, responsible business of an educator! This banal definition gave wings to Khripatch's almost drooping thoughts. He began to talk quickly, precisely and uninterestingly. Sasha caught only a phrase here and there:
"Your first duty as a pupil is to learn ... you should not be attracted by society however pleasant and irreproachable ... in any case I should say that the society of boys of your own age would be preferable ... you must keep high your own reputation and that of your educational institution.... Finally, I may say candidly that I have reasons to suppose that your relations with young ladies have a character of great freedom unpermissible at your age, and altogether not in accordance with generally accepted rules of propriety."
Sasha began to cry. He felt distressed that anyone could think and talk of dear Liudmillotchka as of a person with whom you could take improper liberties.
"Upon my word, there was nothing wrong," he assured the Head-Master. "We only read, went for walks and played—well, we ran sometimes—we did nothing else."
Khripatch slapped him on the back and said in a dry voice which he tried to make hearty:
"Listen, Pilnikov...."
(Why shouldn't he sometimes call this boy Sasha! Was it because it was not official and there was, as yet, no ministerial circular?)
"I believe you when you say that nothing wrong has happened, but all the same you had better put an end to your frequent visits. Believe me, it would be better. I speak to you not only as your schoolmaster and official head, but also as your friend."
Nothing remained for Sasha to do but to make his bow, to thank the Head-Master, and to obey. And Sasha from this time on went to Liudmilla's only for five or ten minutes at a time—but still he tried to go every day. It vexed him to be able to make only such short visits and he vented his annoyance on Liudmilla herself. He often called her now "Liudmillka," "silly fool," "Balaam's ass," and he even struck her. But Liudmilla only laughed at it all.
The report spread about town that the actors of the local theatre were going to organise a masked ball at the Club House, with prizes for the best man's and the best woman's costumes. There were exaggerated rumours about the prize. It was said that the best-dressed lady would receive a cow and the best-dressed man a bicycle. These rumours excited the town people. Each one was eager to win—the prizes were so considerable. The costumes were prepared in haste. No expense was spared. People hid their costumes even from their nearest friends so that their brilliant idea might not be stolen. When the printed announcement of the masked ball appeared—huge bills, pasted on fences and sent out to important tradesmen—it turned out that they were not giving a cow and a bicycle but only a fan to the lady and an album to the man. This vexed and disenchanted those who had been preparing for the ball. They began to grumble. They said:
"It's a waste of money."
"It's simply ridiculous—such prizes."
"They ought to have let us know at once."
"It's only in our town that the public can be treated like this."
Nevertheless all the preparations went on: it wasn't much of a prize, but still it would be flattering to win it.
The amount of the prize did not interest either Darya or Liudmilla. Much they wanted a cow! What a rarity a fan was! And who was going to award the prizes? We know what taste these judges have! But both sisters were captivated by the idea of sending Sasha to the masked ball in a woman's dress, to fool the whole town and to arrange so that the lady's prize should go to him. Valeria tired to look as if she agreed to it. It was Liudmillotchka's little friend, he was not coming to see her, but she could not decide to quarrel with her two elder sisters. She only said with a contemptuous smile:
"He won't dare."
"Well," said Darya, "we shall dress him up so that no one will recognise him."
And when the sisters told Sasha about their project and Liudmillotchka said to him: "We will dress you up as a girl," Sasha jumped up and down and shouted with joy. He was delighted with the idea, especially as no one would know—it would be fine to fool everyone.
They decided at once that they would dress Sasha as a Geisha. The sisters kept their idea in the strictest secrecy and did not even tell Larissa or their brother. Liudmilla herself made the costume from the design on the label of Korilopsis: it was a long full dress of yellow silk on red velvet; she sewed a bright pattern on the dress, consisting of large flowers of fantastic shape. The girls made a fan out of thin Japanese paper, with figures, on bamboo sticks, and a parasol out of thin rose silk with a bamboo handle. They bought rose coloured stockings and wooden slippers with little ridges underneath. The artist Liudmilla painted a Geisha mask: it was a yellowish but agreeable thin face, with a slight motionless smile, oblique eyes and a small, narrow mouth. They had only to get the wig from Peterburg—-black, with smooth, arranged hair.
Time was needed to fit the costume and Sasha could only come in snatches and not every day. But they managed it. Sasha ran off at night by way of the window, when Kokovkina was asleep. It went off successfully.
Varvara also was preparing for the masked ball. She brought a stupid looking mask, and she didn't worry about costume—she dressed herself as a cook. She hung a skimmer at her waist and put a white cap on her head, her arms were bare to the elbow and very heavily rouged—a cook straight from the hearth—and the costume was ready. If she got the prize, so much the better; if she didn't, she could get on without it.
Grushina dressed herself as Diana. Varvara laughed and asked:
"Are you going to put on a collar?"
"Why a collar?" asked Grushina in astonishment.
"I thought you were going to dress up as the dog, Dianka," explained Varvara.
"What a notion!" replied Grushina with a laugh, "not Dianka, but the Goddess, Diana."
Varvara and Grushina dressed for the ball at Grushina's house. Grushina's costume was excessively scanty: bare arms and shoulders, bare neck, bare chest, her legs bare to the knee, light slippers, and a light dress of linen with a red border against the white flesh—it was quite a short dress, but broad with many folds. Varvara said with a smile:
"You aren't over-dressed!"
Grushina replied with a vulgar wink:
"It'll attract the boys!"
"But why so many folds?" asked Varvara.
"I can fill them with sweets for my devilkins," explained Grushina.
All of Grushina that was so boldly displayed was handsome—but what contradictions. On her skin were flea-bites, her manners were coarse and her talk was insufferably banal. Once more abused bodily beauty!
Peredonov thought that the masked ball was planned on purpose to trap him. But he went, not in costume but in a frock coat, to see for himself how plots are devised.
The thought of the masked ball delighted Sasha for many days. But later, doubts began to assail him. How could he get away from home, especially now after these recent annoyances. It would be a calamity if it were found out at thegymnasiaand he would be expelled.
One of the form masters, a young man so liberal that he could not call the cat "Vaska," but called it "the cat Vassily," had recently made a significant observation to Sasha when he gave out the marks.
"Look here, Pilnikov, you'll have to pay more attention to your work."
"But I haven't any twos," said Sasha indifferently.
His heart fell—what would he say next? No, nothing. He was silent and only looked sternly at Sasha.
On the day of the masked ball Sasha felt that he would not have the courage to go. It was terrible. There was only one thing, the costume was ready at the Routilovs'—should it all be for nothing? And should all the plans and dreams be in vain? And Liudmillotchka would cry. No, he must go.
His recently acquired habit of dissembling aided Sasha from betraying his agitation before Kokovkina. Luckily, the old woman went to bed early. And Sasha also went to bed early—to keep away suspicion he put his upper clothes on a chair near the door and placed his boots just outside the door.
There was nothing for him to do now but to go—which was the most difficult part of the matter. He had only to follow the same path as when he went to have his costume fitted. Sasha put on a light summer blouse—it hung in the wardrobe in his room—and light house shoes and he carefully crept out of the window into the street, choosing a moment when there were no footsteps or voices in hearing. A small drizzle was falling. It was muddy, cold and dark. Every moment Sasha was afraid he would be recognised. He took off his cap and shoes, threw them back into his room, turned up his trousers, and ran, jumping over the pavements, slippery with rain. It was difficult to see a face in the dark, especially of someone running, and whoever met him would think he was an ordinary boy sent on an errand.
Valeria and Liudmilla had made for themselves unoriginal but artistic costumes; Liudmilla dressed herself as a gipsy, Valeria as a Spanish woman. Liudmilla wore bright red rags of silk and velvet, while the thin, frail Valeria wore black silk and lace, and had a black lace fan in her hand. Darya did not make herself a new costume, she kept last year's, that of a Turkish woman. She said:
"It isn't worth while making a new one!"
When Sasha arrived all three girls began to dress him. The wig worried Sasha most of all.
"Suppose it should come off?" he kept repeating timorously.
At last they strengthened the wig with ribbons tied under the chin.
The masked ball took place at the Club House in the Market Square—a two-storied building of stone, painted bright red, resembling a barracks. It was arranged by Gromov-Chistopolsky, the actor-manager of the local theatre. The entrance, which was covered in by a calico canopy, was lighted by lamps. The crowd standing in the street criticised the arrivals, for the most part unfavourably, the more so since in the streets the costumes were almost hidden under outside wraps; the crowd judged chiefly by guesswork. The policemen zealously kept order in the street, while in the hall itself the Commissioner of Police and a police-inspector were present as guests.
Every guest received on entering two cards, one pink, for the best woman's costume; one green, for the man's, which were to be handed to the chosen persons. Some asked:
"And can we keep them for ourselves?"
At the beginning the attendant at the ticket-office asked in astonishment:
"Why for yourselves?"
"But suppose we think our own costumes the best?" was the reply.
Later the attendant ceased to be astonished at these questions, and being a young man with a sense of humour, said ironically:
"Help yourself! Keep both if you like."
It was dirtyish in the hall, and from the very beginning a number of the crowd were tipsy. In the close rooms, with their smoke-begrimed walls and ceilings, burned crooked lustres; they seemed huge, heavy and stifling. The faded curtains at the doors looked such that one hesitated to brush against them. Here and there knots of people gathered, exclamations and laughter were heard—this was caused by certain costumes which attracted general attention.
The notary Goudayevsky went as an American Indian. He had cock's feathers in his hair, a copper-red mask with absurd green designs on it, a leather jacket, a check plaid over his shoulder, and high leather boots with green tassels. He waved his arms, jumped about, and walked like an athlete, jerking up his naked knees exaggeratedly. His wife was dressed as an ear of corn. She had on a costume of brightly coloured green and yellow patches; ears of corn stuck out from her on every side. They caught everyone she passed and pricked them. She was jostled and pinched as she went along. She said angrily:
"I'll scratch you!"
Everyone near laughed. Some one asked:
"Where did she get so many corn stalks?"
"She laid in a store last summer," was the answer. "She stole some every day from the fields!"
Several moustacheless officials, who were in love with Goudayevskaya, and who had therefore been told by her how she would be dressed, accompanied her. They collected cards for her—rudely and almost by force. They simply took them away from some who were not very bold. There were other masked women who were zealously collecting cards through their cavaliers. Others looked greedily at the cards which had not yet been given up, and asked for them. These received impertinent answers. One dejected woman, dressed as Night—in a blue costume with a glass star and a paper moon on her forehead—said timidly to Mourin:
"Do give me your card."
Mourin replied rudely:
"What d'you mean? Give you my card? I don't like your mug!"
Night muttered something angrily and walked away. She only wanted two or three cards to show at home, to prove that she had received some. Modest desires often go unsatisfied.
The schoolmistress, Skobotchkina, dressed herself as a she-bear, that is, she simply threw a bearskin cross her shoulders and put on a bear's head as a helmet over the usual half-mask. This was generally speaking shapeless, but it suited her stout figure and stentorian voice. The bear walked with heavy footsteps, and bellowed so loudly that the lights in the lustres trembled. Many people liked the bear, and she received quite a number of tickets. She was unable to keep the cards herself, and had not found a clever cavalier like others of the ladies; more than half of her tickets were stolen when she was being given vodka by some of the small tradesmen—they had a fellow-feeling for her sudden ability to display bearish manners. People in the crowd shouted out:
"Look how the bear swigs vodka!"
Skobotchkina could not decide to refuse vodka. It seemed to her that a she-bear should drink vodka when it was brought to her.
A man dressed as an ancient German was conspicuous by his stature and fine build. He pleased many because of his robustness and because his powerful arms with their well-developed muscles were visible. Women particularly walked after him, and all around him rose a whisper of admiration and of flattery. The ancient German was recognised as the actor, Bengalsky, who is a favourite in our town. That was why he received a large number of tickets. Many people argued thus:
"If I can't get the prize, then at least let an actor (or an actress) get it. If any of us get it they will tire us out with boasting."
Grushina's costume was also a success—a scandalous success. The men followed her in a thick crowd, with laughter and indelicate observations. The women turned away in embarrassment. At last the Commissioner of Police walked up to Grushina and said suavely:
"Madame, I'm afraid you must cover yourself."
"Why? There's nothing indecent to be seen about me," replied Grushina vigorously.
"Madame, the ladies are offended," said Minchukov.
"What do I care for your ladies?" shouted Grushina.
"Now, Madame," insisted Minchukov, "you must put at least a handkerchief on your chest and back."
"Suppose my handkerchief's dirty?" said Grushina with a vulgar laugh.
But Minchukov insisted:
"As you please, Madame; but if you don't cover yourself a little, you'll have to go."
Grumbling violently, Grushina went into the dressing-room and with the help of the attendant rearranged the folds of her dress across her chest and back. When she returned to the hall, though she looked more modest, she just as zealously sought for admirers. She flirted vulgarly with any man. Then when people's attention was elsewhere she went into the refreshment-room to steal sweets. Soon she returned to the hall, and showing Volodin a couple of peaches, smiled impudently and said:
"I got them myself!"
And immediately the peaches were hidden in the folds of her costume. Volodin's face lit up with joy.
"Well," he said, "if so, I'll go too."
Soon Grushina got tipsy and began to behave boisterously—she shouted, waved her arms and spat.
"Dianka's getting very happy!" everyone said about her.
Such was the masked ball to which the foolish girls had enticed the scatter-brained schoolboy. The three sisters and Sasha took two cabs and arrived rather late, on his account. Their arrival in the hall was noticed. The Geisha particularly pleased many people. The rumour went round that the Geisha was Kashtanova, the actress, very popular with the male portion of local society. And that was why Sasha received a large number of cards. But in fact Kashtanova was not there, for her little boy had fallen dangerously ill.
Sasha, intoxicated by his new situation, coquetted furiously. The more they stuck their cards into the Geisha's little hand, the more gaily and provokingly gleamed the eyes of the coquettish Geisha through the narrow slits of the mask. The Geisha curtsied, lifted her small fingers, laughed in an intimate tone, waved her fan, struck first one man and then another on the shoulder, then hid her face behind her fan and frequently opened out her rose parasol. However, these not over-graceful actions attracted many who admired the actress Kashtanova.
"I will give my card to the most beautiful of ladies," said Tishkov, and handed his card to the Geisha with a gallant bow.
He had taken a good deal to drink and his face was flushed; his motionlessly smiling face and awkward figure made him look like a doll. And he kept continually rhyming.
Valeria looked on at Sasha's success, and felt envious and annoyed; she now wanted to be recognised and to have her costume and slender, graceful figure please the crowd, and be awarded the prize. And now she sadly thought that this was not possible, as all the three sisters had agreed to get cards only for the Geisha, and even to give their own to her.
They were dancing in the hall. Volodin got tipsy very soon and began to dance the "squat" dance. The police stopped him.
He said cheerfully and obediently:
"Well, if I mustn't, then I mustn't."
But two other men who had followed his example and were dancing the "squat" dance refused to obey the order.
"What right have you to stop us? Haven't we paid our half-rouble?" they exclaimed and were escorted out. Volodin went with them to the door, cutting capers, smiling and dancing.
The Routilov girls made haste to find Peredonov to make a fool of him. He sat alone at the window and looked at the crowd with wandering eyes. All people and objects seemed to him senseless, inharmonious, and equally hostile. Liudmilla, in her gipsy dress, went up to him and said in a guttural voice:
"Shall I tell your fortune, pretty gentleman?"
"Go to the devil!" shouted Peredonov.
The gipsy's sudden appearance frightened him.
"Give me your hand, dear gentleman, pretty gentleman. I can see from your face that you'll be rich. You'll be an important official," Liudmilla importuned him, and took his hand.
"Well, see that you give me a good fortune," growled Peredonov.
"My sweet gentleman," began the gipsy, "you have many enemies, they'll inform against you, you will weep, you will die under a fence."
"Carrion!" shouted Peredonov, and snatched his hand away.
Liudmilla quickly disappeared in the crowd. Then Valeria took her place. She sat down beside Peredonov and whispered to him very tenderly:
"I am a lovely Spanish maid,And I love such men as you,But that your wife's a wretched jade,Handsome gentleman, is true."
"It's a lie, you fool," growled Peredonov.
Valeria went on:
"Hotter than day, sweeter than night,Is my keen Seville kiss;Spit in her dull eyes, my light,And see that you don't miss.Varvara is your wife,You are handsome, Ardalyon;She's a plague upon your life,You're as wise as Solomon."
"That's true enough," said Peredonov, "but how can I spit in her eyes? She'll complain to the Princess and I shan't get the place."
"And why do you want the place? You're good enough without the place," said Valeria.
"Yes, but how can I live if I don't get it?" said Peredonov dejectedly.
Darya stuck into Volodin's hand a letter with a red seal on it. Volodin unsealed the letter, bleating happily, read it and lapsed into thought—he looked proud and a little flurried. It was written briefly and clearly:
"Come, my darling, and meet me to-morrow night at eleven o'clock at the Soldiers' Baths. Your unknown J."
Volodin believed in the letter, but the question was—was it worth going? And who was this "J"? Was it some sort of Jenny? Or was it the surname which began with "J"?
Volodin showed the letter to Routilov.
"Go, of course go," Routilov urged him, "and see what happens. Perhaps it's some rich catch, who's fallen in love with you and the parents are against it, so she's taken this way of speaking to you."
But Volodin thought and thought and decided that it was not worth while going. He said with an important air:
"They're always running after me, but I don't want girls so loose that they run away from home."
He was afraid that he would get a beating, for the Soldiers' Baths were situated in a lonely place on the outskirts of the town.
When the dense, noisy, uproariously gay crowd was pushing its way into every part of the Club House, from the door of the dancing hall came a noise, laughter and exclamations of approval. Everyone crowded in that direction. It was announced from one to another that a fearfully original mask had come in. A thin, tall man, in a greasy, patched dressing-gown, with a besom under his arm, with a hat in his hand, made his way through the crowd. He had a cardboard mask on,—a stupid face, with a small, narrow beard and side whiskers, and on his head was a cap with a round official badge. He kept repeating in an astonished voice:
"They told me there was a masquerade[1]here, but no one seems to be bathing."
And he languidly swung a pail. The crowd followed him, exclaiming, and genuinely admiring his original idea.
"He'll get the prize," said Volodin enviously.
Like many others, he envied unthinkingly—he himself wore no costume, so why should he be envious? Machigin was enthusiastic over this costume, the badge especially aroused his delight. He laughed uproariously, clapped his hands, and observed to acquaintances and to strangers:
"A fine criticism! These officials always make a great deal of themselves—they wear badges and uniforms. Well, here's a fine criticism for them—very clever indeed."
When it got hot, the official in the dressing-gown began to fan himself with the besom, exclaiming:
"Well, here's a bath for you."[2]
Those near laughed gleefully. There was a shower of cards into the pail.
Peredonov looked at the besom wavering above the crowd. He thought it was the nedotikomka.
"She's gone green, the beast!" he thought in horror.
[1]Masquerade. This word is used in Russia to mean either a ball or a bath, owing to the fact that clothes are taken off on both occasions.
[1]Masquerade. This word is used in Russia to mean either a ball or a bath, owing to the fact that clothes are taken off on both occasions.
[2]Referring to the fact that a besom is used in Russian and Turkish baths.
[2]Referring to the fact that a besom is used in Russian and Turkish baths.
At last the counting of the cards began. The stewards of the Club composed the committee. A tensely expectant crowd gathered at the door of the judges' room. For a short time in the dancing-hall everything became quiet and dull. The music ceased. The company grew silent. Peredonov felt sad. But soon an impatient hum of conversation began in the crowd. Someone said in an assured tone that both prizes would go to actors.
"You'll see," someone's irritated, hissing voice could be heard saying. The crowd was restless. Those who had received only a few cards were vexed at this. Those who had a larger number of cards were disturbed by the expectation of a possible injustice.
Suddenly a bell tingled lightly and nervously. The judges came out; they were Veriga, Avinovitsky, Kirillov and other stewards of the Club.
The crowd's excitement passed through the hall—suddenly everyone was silent. Avinovitsky shouted in a stentorian voice which was heard through the whole hall:
"The album, the prize for the best man's costume, has been awarded, according to the majority of cards received, to the gentleman in the costume of an ancient German."
Avinovitsky lifted the album on high and looked savagely at the crowding guests. The huge German began to make his way through the crowd. The others looked hostilely at him and obstructed his passage.
"Don't jostle, please," shouted in a tearful voice the dejected woman in the blue costume, with the glass star and the paper moon—Night.
"He's got the prize and he thinks the women must fall at his feet!" shouted a viciously angry voice.
"You won't let me pass yourself," said the German with suppressed annoyance.
At last he managed somehow to get to the judges, and Veriga presented him with the album. The band played a flourish. But the sound of the music was lost in the disorderly noise. People shouted abusive exclamations. They surrounded the German, jostled him and shouted:
"Take off your mask!"
The German said nothing. It would not have been difficult for him to get through the crowd, but he obviously hesitated to use his full strength. Goudayevsky caught hold of the album and at the same time someone quickly tore the mask from the German's face. The crowd cried out:
"It is an actor!"
Their suppositions were justified: it was the actor, Bengalsky. He shouted angrily:
"Yes, it is an actor! And what of it? You gave me the cards yourselves!"
In answer came the virulent exclamation:
"It's easy to slip in a few extra!"
"You printed the cards."
"There have been more cards given in than there are people here."
"He brought fifty cards in his pocket."
Bengalsky flushed and shouted:
"It's disgusting to talk like that. You can prove it if you like. You can count the cards and the number of people."
Veriga interposed, saying to those near him:
"Gentlemen, calm yourselves. There's been no cheating—you can take my word for it. The number of tickets has been carefully checked with the number of entries."
The stewards, with the help of a few of the more sensible guests, somehow pacified the crowd. Besides, everyone was anxious to know who would get the fan.
Veriga announced:
"Ladies and gentlemen, the largest number of cards for the best lady's costume has been received by the lady in the Geisha's costume, who has therefore been awarded the prize—a fan. Geisha, please come this way. The fan is yours. Ladies and gentlemen, I humbly request you to make way for the Geisha."
The band again gave a flourish. The frightened Geisha longed to run away. But she was jostled along and led forward. Veriga, with an amiable smile, handed her the fan. The colours of the variegated costumes glimmered before Sasha's eyes, which were half dimmed by fear and confusion. He would have to return thanks, he thought. The habitual politeness of a well-bred boy showed itself. The Geisha made a curtsy, said something indistinctly, laughed slightly and lifted her fingers—and again in the room rose a furious uproar of whistling and abuse. Everyone made a rush for the Geisha. The savage and dishevelled Ear of Corn cried:
"Make a curtsy, you little beast!"
The Geisha threw herself towards the door, but her way was barred. From the crowd which seethed around the Geisha came malignant outcries:
"Make her unmask!"
"Mask off!"
"Catch her! Hold her!"
"Tear it off!"
"Take her fan away!"
The Ear of Corn shouted:
"Do you know who got the prize? Kashtanova, the actress! She stole someone else's husband, and yet she gets the prize! They don't give it to honest women, they give it to that creature!"
And she threw herself towards the Geisha, with piercing screams, clenching her bony fists. Others came after her, mostly her cavaliers. The Geisha fought them off desperately. A wild tussle began. The fan was broken, torn out of her hands, thrown on the floor and trodden upon. The crowd, with the Geisha in the middle, swayed furiously across the room, sweeping onlookers from their feet. Neither the Routilovs nor the Club stewards could reach the Geisha. The Geisha, strong and alert, screamed piercingly, scratched and bit her assailants. She held her mask on tightly now with one hand, now with the other.
"They ought all to be beaten," screeched some spiteful little woman.
The tipsy Grushina, hiding behind the others, urged on Volodin and other acquaintances.
"Pinch her! Pinch the creature!" she shouted.
Machigin, holding his bleeding nose, jumped out from the crowd and complained:
"She hit me straight in the nose with her fist!"
A vicious young man caught the Geisha's sleeve in his teeth and tore it in half. The Geisha cried out:
"Help! Save me!"
And others began to tear her costume. Here and there her body showed slightly. Darya and Liudmilla struggled desperately, trying to squeeze through to the Geisha, but in vain. Volodin plucked at the Geisha so zealously, screamed and cut such capers that he hindered other people less drunk than himself and more spiteful: he did not attack her from spite but from drunken joy, imagining that some very amusing farce was going on. He tore one sleeve clean off the Geisha's dress and he tied it round his head.
"It'll come in useful," he shouted, laughing and grimacing.
Getting out of the thick of the crowd, he went on making a fool of himself in the open space, and danced over the pieces of the fan with wild squeals. There was no one to restrain him. Peredonov looked at him in dread and thought:
"He's dancing. He's glad for something. That's how he'll dance on my grave."
At last the Geisha tore herself away—the crowd about her could not withstand her quick fists and sharp teeth. The Geisha dashed from the room. In the corridor the Ear of Corn rushed at the Geisha again and caught hold of her dress. The Geisha almost succeeded in tearing herself away, but she was again surrounded. The scuffle was renewed.
"They're pulling her by the ears!" someone exclaimed.
A little woman caught the Geisha's ear and pulled it with loud triumphant cries. The Geisha screamed and somehow tore herself away, after having hit the malicious little woman with her fist. At last, Bengalsky, who had managed in the meantime to put on his ordinary dress, fought his way towards the Geisha. He took the trembling Geisha in his arms, covered her with his huge body and arms as far as he could and quickly carried her away, thrusting the crowd aside with his elbows and feet. The crowd shouted:
"Rotter! Scoundrel!"
They tugged at Bengalsky and punched him in the back. He exclaimed:
"I won't allow the mask to be torn from a woman. Do what you like, I won't allow it."
In this way he carried the Geisha the entire length of the corridor, which culminated in a narrow door opening into the Club dining-room. Here Veriga managed to hold back the crowd for a short time. With the resolution of a soldier he stood there and refused to allow anyone to pass. He said:
"Gentlemen, you can't go any farther."
Goudayevskaya, rustling with the remaining ears of corn of her costume, dashed at Veriga, clenching her fists and screamed piercingly:
"Go away! Let us pass!"
But the General's imposingly cold face and his determined grey eyes kept her from doing anything more. She cried in helpless rage to her husband:
"You might have boxed her ears—you gaping block-head!"
"It was hard to get at her," the Indian justified himself, gesticulating wildly—"Pavloushka was in the way."
"You ought to have hit Pavloushka in the teeth and her in the ear—why did you stand on ceremony!" screamed Goudayevskaya.
The crowd pressed against Veriga. They abused him fully. Veriga stood calmly before the door and tried to persuade those nearest him to preserve order. The kitchen-boy opened the door behind Veriga and whispered:
"They've gone, your Excellency."
Veriga walked away.
The crowd broke into the dining-room, then into the kitchen—they looked for the Geisha but did not find her.
Bengalsky, carrying the Geisha, ran through the dining-room into the kitchen. She lay tranquilly in his arms and said nothing. Bengalsky thought he could hear the strong beating of the Geisha's heart. On her tightly-clutching bare arms he noticed several scratches and near the elbow the blue-yellow stain of a bruise. In a hurried voice Bengalsky said to the crowding servants in the kitchen:
"Quick, an overcoat, a dressing-gown, a sheet—anything! I must save this lady."
An overcoat was thrown on Sasha's shoulders, Bengalsky somehow wrapped it round the Geisha, and traversing the dark stairs, lighted by dim, smoky paraffin lamps, carried her into the yard and through a gate into the street.
"Take off the mask. You'll be more likely to be recognised with it on—and anyway it's quite dark here. I'll tell no one," said he rather inconsistently.
He was curious. He knew for certain that it was not Kashtanova, but who was it then? The Geisha obeyed. Bengalsky saw an unfamiliar, smooth face, on which fright was giving place to an expression of joy at an escaped danger. A pair of cheerful eyes gazed at the actor's face.
"How can I thank you?" said the Geisha in a clear voice. "What would have become of me, if you hadn't saved me?"
"She's no coward. An interesting little woman!" thought the actor. "But who is she?"
It was obvious that she was a new arrival; Bengalsky knew the women of the district. He said quietly to Sasha:
"I must take you home at once. Give me your address and I'll call a cabby."
The Geisha's face again became dark with fear.
"You mustn't, you simply mustn't," she whispered. "I will go home alone. Let me down here."
"But how can you go home in such mud and with those wooden shoes. You'd better let me call a cab," said the actor persuasively.
"No, I'll go by myself. For God's sake let me down," entreated the Geisha.
"I give you my word of honour I won't tell anyone," said Bengalsky reassuringly. "I mustn't let you go, you'll catch cold. I'm responsible for you now, and I can't let you go. But tell me quickly—they might get after you even here. You saw what savages they are. They're capable of anything."
The Geisha trembled, quick tears suddenly trickled from her eyes. She said, sobbing:
"Terribly cruel people! Take me to the Routilovs for the present and I'll spend the night there."
Bengalsky called a cab. They got in and drove off. The actor looked intently at the Geisha's face. There seemed to him to be something strange about it. The Geisha turned her face away. The town-talk about Liudmilla and a schoolboy suddenly occurred to Bengalsky's mind.
"Ah-ha! You're a boy!" he said in a whisper, so that the cabby should not hear.
"For God's sake!" said Sasha growing pale with fear.
And his smooth hands under the overcoat stretched themselves towards Bengalsky with a movement of entreaty. Bengalsky laughed quietly and whispered:
"I won't tell anyone. Don't be afraid. My business is to get you home safe, and beyond that I know nothing. But you're a daring kid. Won't they find out at home?"
"If you don't say anything no one will know," said Sasha in a voice of gentle entreaty.
"You can depend on me. I shall be silent as the grave," replied the actor. "I was a boy myself once; I was up to all sorts of pranks."
The clamour in the Club had already begun to calm down, but the evening terminated in a new calamity. While they were tussling with the Geisha in the corridor, the flaming nedotikomka, jumping on the lustres, laughed and insistently whispered to Peredonov that he should strike a match and let loose her, the flaming but confined nedotikomka on these dingy, dirty walls, and, when she had gorged herself with the destruction of this building where such terrible and incomprehensible deeds were happening, then she would leave Peredonov unmolested. And Peredonov could not resist her importunate whisper. He entered the little dining-room which was next to the dancing-hall. It was empty. Peredonov looked around, struck a match, put it to the window curtain at the floor and waited till the hangings caught fire. The flaming nedotikomka, like an active little snake, crept up the curtain, squealing softly and happily. Peredonov walked out of the dining-room, closing the door behind him. No one noticed the incendiary.
The fire was only seen from the street when the whole room was in flames. The fire spread quickly. The people escaped—but the Club House was burnt down.
On the next day the town talked of nothing but the Geisha affair and the fire. Bengalsky kept his word and told no one that the Geisha was a disguised boy.
As for Sasha he had redressed himself that night at Routilovs and, turning once more into a simple barefoot boy, ran home, crept through the window and went quietly to sleep. In the town, seething with slanders, in the town where everyone knew everything about everyone, Sasha's nocturnal adventure remained a secret. For long, but, of course, not for always.
Ekaterina Ivanovna Pilnikova, Sasha's aunt and guardian, received simultaneously two letters about Sasha—one from the Head-Master and the other from Kokovkina. These letters greatly alarmed her. She put all her affairs aside and drove at once from her village through the muddy autumn roads to our town. Sasha, who loved his aunt, met her with great joy. His aunt came with the intention of rating him soundly. But he threw himself on her neck with such gladness and kissed her hands so affectionately that she could not at first speak severely to him.
"Dear Auntie, how good of you to come!" said Sasha, and looked happily at her full, rosy face with its kind dimples on the cheeks and its grave, hazel eyes.
"You'd better postpone your pleasure, I must scold you first," said his aunt in an irresolute voice.
"I don't mind that," said Sasha indifferently, "scold me, if you have anything to scold me for, but still I'm terribly glad to see you!"
"Terribly?" she repeated in a displeased voice. "I've been hearing terrible things about you."
Sasha lifted his eyebrows and looked at his aunt with innocent, uncomprehending eyes.
"There's one master, Peredonov, here," he complained, "who has invented the tale that I'm a girl. He's been annoying me, and then the Head-Master scolded me because I had got to know the Routilov girls. As if I went there to steal things! And what business is it of theirs?"
"He's quite the same child that he was before," thought his aunt in perplexity, "or has he become spoilt and corrupted so that he can deceive one even with his face?"
She shut herself in with Kokovkina and talked to her for a long time. She came out looking quite grave. Then she went to the Head-Master. She returned quite upset. She showered reproaches on Sasha. Sasha cried but firmly assured her that it was all an invention, that he did not permit himself any liberties with the Routilov girls. His aunt did not believe him. She scolded him, wept and threatened to give him a good whipping at once—that is to-day, as soon as she had seen these girls. Sasha kept crying and assuring her that nothing wrong had happened, and that it was all very exaggerated.
His aunt, angry and bloated with tears, went to the Routilovs.
As she waited in the Routilovs' drawing-room, Ekaterina Ivanovna felt very agitated. She wanted to throw herself on the sisters at once with the severest reproaches which she had prepared beforehand. But their peaceful, pretty drawing-room aroused peaceful thoughts in her against her will, and softened her vexation. The unfinished embroidery left lying about, the keepsakes, the engravings on the walls, the carefully trained plants at the windows, the absence of dust and the home-like appearance of the room were not at all what one would expect in an unrespectable house; there was everything that is valued by housewives the world over—surely with such surroundings the young owners of such a drawing-room could not have corrupted her innocent young Sasha. All the conjectures she had made about Sasha seemed to her ridiculously absurd. On the other hand, Sasha's explanations about his doings at the Routilovs seemed reasonable; they read, chatted, joked, laughed and played—they wanted to get up an amateur play, but Olga Vassilyevna would not allow him to take part.
The three sisters felt apprehensive. They did not yet know whether Sasha's masquerading had remained a secret. But there were three of them and they all felt solicitous for one another. This gave them courage. All three of them gathered in Liudmilla's room and deliberated in whispers.
"We must go down to her," said Valeria. "It's rude to keep her waiting."
"Let her cool off a little," replied Darya indifferently, "or she'll go for us."
The sisters scented themselves with clematis. They came in tranquil, cheerful, attractive, pretty as always; they filled the drawing-room with their charming chatter and gaiety. Ekaterina Ivanovna was immediately fascinated by them.
"So these are the corrupters!" she thought, with vexation at the school pedagogues. But then she thought that perhaps they were assuming this modesty. She decided not to yield to their fascination.
"You must forgive me, young ladies, but I have something serious to discuss with you," she said, trying to make her voice dry and business-like.
The sisters made her sit down and kept up a gay chatter.
"Which of you——" Ekaterina Ivanovna began irresolutely.
Liudmilla, as if she were a graceful hostess trying to get a visitor out of a difficulty, said cheerfully:
"It was I who spent most of the time with your nephew. We have similar views and tastes in many things."
"Your nephew is a very charming boy," said Darya, as if she were confident that her praise would please the visitor.
"Really most charming, and so entertaining," said Liudmilla.
Ekaterina Ivanovna felt more and more awkward. She suddenly realised that she had no reasonable cause for complaint and this made her angry—Liudmilla's last words gave her an opportunity to express her vexation—she said angrily:
"He may be an entertainment to you but to him——"
But Darya interrupted her and said in a sympathetic voice:
"Oh, I can see that those silly Peredonovian tales have reached you. Of course, you know that he's quite mad? The Head-Master does not even allow him to go to thegymnasianow. They're only waiting for an alienist to examine him and then he will be dismissed from the school."
"But, allow me," Ekaterina Ivanovna interrupted her with increasing irritation. "I am not interested in this schoolmaster but in my nephew. I have heard that you—pardon me—are corrupting him."
And having thrown out this decisive word in her anger with the sisters, Ekaterina Ivanovna at once saw that she had gone too far. The sisters exchanged glances of such well-simulated perplexity and indignation that cleverer people than Ekaterina Ivanovna would have been taken in—they flushed and exclaimed altogether:
"That's pleasant!"
"How terrible!"
"That's something new!"
"Madam," said Darya coldly, "you are not over choice in your expressions. Before you make use of such words you should find out whether they are fitting!"
"Of course, one can understand that," said Liudmilla, with the look of a charming girl forgiving an injury, "he's not a stranger to you. Naturally, you can't help being disturbed by this stupid gossip. Even strangers like ourselves were sorry for him and had to be kind to him. But everything in our town is made a crime at once. You have no idea what terrible, terrible people live here!"
"Terrible people," repeated Valeria quietly, in a clear, fragile voice and shivered from head to foot as if she had come in contact with something unclean.
"You ask him yourself," said Darya. "Just look at him; he's still a mere child. Perhaps you have got used to his naïveté, but one can see better from the outside that he's quite an unspoiled boy."
The sisters lied with such assurance and tranquillity that it was impossible not to believe them. Why not? Lies have often more verisimilitude than the truth. Nearly always. As for truth of course it has no verisimilitude.
"Of course it is true that he was often here," said Darya, "but we shan't let him cross our threshold again, if you object."
"And I shall go and see Khripatch to-day," said Liudmilla. "How did he get hold of that notion? Surely he doesn't believe such a stupid tale?"
"No, I don't think he believes it himself," admitted Ekaterina Ivanovna. "But he says that various unpleasant rumours are going about."
"There! You see!" exclaimed Liudmilla happily. "Of course he doesn't believe it himself. What's the reason of all this fuss then?"
Liudmilla's cheerful voice deceived Ekaterina Ivanovna. She thought:
"I wonder what exactly has happened? The Head-Master does say that he doesn't believe it."
The sisters for a long time supported each other in persuading Ekaterina Ivanovna of the complete innocence of their relations with Sasha. To set her mind more completely at rest they were on the point of telling her in detail precisely what they did with Sasha; but they stopped short because they were all such innocent, simple things that it was difficult to remember them. And Ekaterina Ivanovna at last came to believe that her Sasha and the charming Routilovs were the innocent victims of stupid slander.
As she bade them good-bye she kissed them kindly and said:
"You're charming, simple girls. I thought at first that you were—forgive the rude word—wantons."
The sisters laughed gaily. Liudmilla said:
"No, we're just happy girls with sharp little tongues and that's why we're not liked by some of the local geese."
When she returned from the Routilovs Sasha's aunt said nothing to him. He met her, feeling rather frightened and embarrassed and he looked at her cautiously and attentively. After a long deliberation with Kokovkina the aunt decided:
"I must see the Head-Master again."
That same day Liudmilla went to see Khripatch. She sat for some time in the drawing-room with the Head-Master's wife and then announced that she had come to see Nikolai Vassilyevitch on business.
An animated conversation took place in Khripatch's study—not because they had much to say to one another but because they liked to chatter. And they talked rapidly to each other, Khripatch with his dry, crackling volubility, Liudmilla with her gentle, resonant prattle. With the irresistible persuasiveness of falsehood, she poured out to Khripatch her half-false story of her relations with Sasha Pilnikov. Her chief motives were, of course, her sympathy with the boy who was suffering from this coarse suspicion, her desire to take the place of Sasha's absent family. And finally he was such a charming, unspoiled boy. Liudmilla even cried a little and her swift tears rolled down her cheeks to her half-smiling lips, giving her an extraordinary attractiveness.
"I have grown to love him like a brother," she said. "He is a fine, lovable boy. He appreciated affection and he kissed my hands."
"That was very good of you," said Khripatch somewhat flustered, "and does honour to your kind feelings. But you have needlessly taken to heart the simple fact that I considered it my duty to inform the boy's relatives of the rumours that reached me."
Liudmilla prattled on, without listening to him, and her voice passed into a tone of gentle rebuke.
"Tell me what was wrong in our taking an interest in the boy? Why should he suffer from that coarse, mad Peredonov? When shall we be rid of him? Can't you see yourself that Pilnikov is quite a child, really a mere child?"
She clasped her small, pretty hands together, rattled her gold bracelets, laughed softly, took her handkerchief out to dry her tears and wafted a delicate perfume towards Khripatch. And Khripatch suddenly wanted to tell her that she was "lovely as a heavenly angel," and that this unfortunate episode "was not worth a single instant of her dear sorrow." But he refrained.
And Liudmilla chattered on and on and dissolved into smoke the chimerical structure of the Peredonovian lie. Think of comparing the charming Liudmillotchka with the crude, dirty, insane Peredonov! Whether Liudmilla was telling the whole truth or romancing was all the same to Khripatch; but he felt that if he did not believe Liudmilla and should argue with her and take steps to punish Pilnikov it might lead to an inquiry and disgrace the whole School District. All the more since this business was bound up with Peredonov who would be found to be insane. And Khripatch smiled, saying to Liudmilla:
"I'm very sorry that this should upset you so much. I didn't for a moment permit myself any disagreeable suspicions of your acquaintance with Pilnikov. I esteem most highly those good and kindly motives which have inspired your actions, and not for a single instant have I considered the rumours that passed in the town and those that reached me as anything but unreasonable slanders which gave me deep concern. I was obliged to inform Madame Pilnikov, especially since even more distorted rumours might have reached her, but I had no intention of distressing you and had no idea that Madame Pilnikov would come and complain to you."
"We've had a satisfactory explanation with Madame Pilnikov," said Liudmilla. "But don't punish Sasha on our account. If our house is so dangerous for schoolboys we won't let him come again."
"You're very good to him," said Khripatch irresolutely. "We can have nothing against his visiting his acquaintances in his leisure hours, if his aunt permits it. We are very far from wishing to turn students' lodgings into places of confinement. In any case, until the Peredonov affair is decided, it would be better for Pilnikov to remain at home."
The accepted explanation given by the Routilov girls and by Sasha received confirmation from a terrible event which happened in the Peredonovs' house. This finally convinced the townspeople that all the rumours about Sasha and the Routilov girls were the ravings of a madman.
It was a cold, bleak day. Peredonov had just left Volodin. He felt depressed. Vershina lured him into the garden. He yielded again to her witching call. The two of them walked towards the summer-house, over the moist footpaths which were covered by the dark, rotting fallen leaves. The summer-house felt unpleasantly damp. The house with its windows closed was visible through the bare trees.
"I want you to know the truth," mumbled Vershina, as she looked quickly at Peredonov, and then turned away her black eyes.
She was wrapped in a black jacket, her head was tied round with a black kerchief, and her lips, grown blue with the cold, were clenched on a black cigarette holder, and sent out thick clouds of black smoke.
"I want to spit on your truth," replied Peredonov. "Nothing would please me better."
Vershina smiled wryly and said:
"Don't say that! I am terribly sorry for you—you have been fooled."
There was a malicious joy in her voice. Malevolent words flowed from her tongue. She said:
"You were hoping to get patronage, but you were too trustful. You have been fooled, and you believed so easily. Anyone can write a letter. You should have known with whom you were dealing. Your wife is not a very particular person."
Peredonov understood Vershina's mumbling speech with some difficulty; her meaning peered out through all her circumlocutions. Vershina was afraid to speak loudly and clearly. Someone might hear if she spoke loudly, and tell Varvara, who would not hesitate to make a scene. And Peredonov himself might get into a rage if she spoke clearly, and even beat her. It was better to hint, so that he might guess the truth. But Peredonov did not rise to the occasion. It had happened before that he had been told to his face of the deception practised on him; yet he never grasped the fact that the letters had been forged, and kept on thinking that it was the Princess who was fooling him, leading him by the nose.
At last Vershina said bluntly:
"You think the Princess wrote those letters? Why, all the town knows that they were fabricated by Grushina at your wife's request; the Princess knows nothing about it. Ask anyone you like; everyone knows—they gave the thing away themselves. And then Varvara Dmitrievna stole the letters from you and burnt them so as to leave no traces."
Dark, oppressive thoughts stirred in Peredonov's brain. He understood only one thing—that he had been fooled. But that the Princess knew nothing of it could not enter his head—yes, she knew. No wonder she had come out of the fire alive.
"It's a lie about the Princess," he said. "I tried to burn the Princess, but did not succeed in burning her up; she spat out an exorcism."
Suddenly a furious rage seized Peredonov. Fooled! He struck the table savagely with his fist, tore himself from his place, and without saying good-bye to Vershina walked home quickly. Vershina looked after him with malignant joy, and the black clouds of smoke flew quickly from her dark mouth, and swirled away in the wind.
Rage consumed Peredonov. But when he saw Varvara, he was seized with a painful dread, which prevented him from uttering a word.
On the next morning Peredonov got ready a small garden knife, which he carefully kept in a leather sheath in his pocket. He spent the whole morning until luncheon at Volodin's. He looked at Volodin working, and made absurd remarks. Volodin was glad, as usual, that Peredonov fussed about him, and he accepted Peredonov's silly talk as wit.
That whole day the nedotikomka wheeled around Peredonov. It would not let him go to sleep after lunch. It completely tired him out. When, towards evening, he had almost fallen asleep, he was awakened by a mischievous woman who appeared from some place unknown to him. She was pug-nosed, amorphous, and as she walked up to his bed she muttered:
"TheKvassmust be crushed out, the tarts must be taken out of the oven, the meat must be roasted."
Her cheeks were dark, but her teeth gleamed.
"Go to the devil!" shouted Peredonov.
The pug-nosed woman disappeared as if she had not been there at all.
The evening came. A melancholy wind blew in the chimney. A slow rain tapped on the window quietly and persistently. It was quite black outside. Volodin was at the Peredonovs'—Peredonov had invited him early that morning to the supper.
"Don't let anyone in. Do you hear, Klavdiushka?" shouted Peredonov.
Varvara smiled. Peredonov muttered:
"All sorts of women are prowling around here. A watch should be kept. One got into my bedroom; she asked to be taken on as cook. But why should I have a pug-nosed cook?"
Volodin laughed bleatingly and said:
"There are women walking about in the street, but they have nothing to do with us, and we shan't let them join us at our table."