Chapter 3

[1]"Piatachek" means a "five kopek piece" and also a "pig's snout." Routilov puns on the word.

[2]Durman, the thorn apple or datura, a very poisonous plant. The Russians have a verb "durmanised," meaning bewitched or stupefied by the durman.

[3]Zakouska, savoury salt eatables, rather likehors d'oeuvres,eaten with vodka.

[4]A journal of revolutionary tendencies, suppressed in 1881.

The next day Peredonov and Volodin went to see the Adamenko girl. Volodin was in his best clothes; he put on his new, tight-fitting frock-coat, a clean-laundered shirt and a brightly-coloured cravat. He smeared his hair with pomade and scented himself—he was in fine spirits.

Nadezhda Vassilyevna Adamenko lived with her brother in town in her own red-brick house; she had an estate not far from town which she let on lease. Two years before she had completed a course in the local college and now she occupied herself in lying on a couch to read books of every description and in coaching her brother, an eleven-year-old schoolboy, who always protected himself against his sister's severities by saying:

"It was much better in Mamma's time—she used to put an umbrella in the corner instead of me."

Nadezhda Vassilyevna's aunt lived with her. She was a characterless, decrepit woman with no voice in the household affairs. Nadezhda Vassilyevna chose her acquaintances with great care. Peredonov was very seldom in her house and only his lack of real acquaintance with her could have given birth to his idea of getting her to marry Volodin. She was therefore extremely astonished at their unexpected visit, but she received the uninvited guests quite graciously. She had to amuse them, and it seemed to her that the most likely and pleasant method of entertaining an instructor of the Russian language would be to talk of educational conditions, school reform, the training of children, literature, Symbolism and the Russian literary periodicals. She touched upon all these themes, but received no response beyond enigmatic remarks, which showed that these questions had no interest for her guests.

She soon saw that only one subject was possible—town gossip. But Nadezhda Vassilyevna nevertheless made one more attempt.

"Have you read the 'Man in the Case,' by Chekhov?" she asked. "It's a clever piece of work, isn't it?"

As she turned with this question to Volodin he smiled pleasantly and asked:

"Is that an essay or a novel?"

"It's a short story," exclaimed Nadezhda.

"Did you say it was by Mister Chekhov?" inquired Volodin.

"Yes, Chekhov," said Nadezhda and smiled.

"Where was it published?" asked Volodin curiously.

"In the 'Russkaya Misl,'" the young woman explained graciously.

"In what number?" continued Volodin.

"I can't quite remember. I think it was in one of the summer numbers," replied Nadezhda, still graciously but with some astonishment.

A schoolboy suddenly appeared from behind the door.

"It was published in the May number," he said, with his hand on the door-knob, glancing at his sister and her guests with cheerful blue eyes.

"You're too young to read novels!" growled Peredonov angrily. "You ought to work instead of reading indecent stories."

Nadezhda Vassilyevna looked sternly at her brother.

"It is a nice thing to stand behind doors and listen," she remarked, and lifting her hands crossed her little fingers at a right angle.

The boy made a wry face and disappeared. He went into his own room, stood in the corner and gazed at the clock; two little fingers crossed was a sign that he should stand in the corner for ten minutes. "No," he thought sadly, "it was much better when Mamma was alive. She only put an umbrella in the corner."

Meanwhile in the drawing-room Volodin was promising his hostess that he would certainly get the May number of the "Russkaya Misl," in order to read Mister Chekhov's story. Peredonov listened with an expression of unconcealed boredom on his face. At last he said:

"I haven't read it either. I don't read such nonsense. There's nothing but stupidities in stories and novels." Nadezhda Vassilyevna smiled amiably and said:

"You're very severe towards contemporary literature. But good books are written even nowadays."

"I read all the good books long ago," announced Peredonov. "I don't intend to begin to read what's being written now."

Volodin looked at Peredonov with respect. Nadezhda Vassilyevna sighed lightly and—as there was nothing else for her to do—she began a string of small-talk and gossip to the best of her ability. Although she disliked such conversation she managed to keep it up with the ease and buoyancy of a lively, well-trained girl. The guests became animated. She was intolerably bored, but they thought that she was particularly gracious and they put it down to the charm of Volodin's personality.

Once in the street Peredonov congratulated Volodin upon his success. Volodin laughed gleefully and skipped about. He had already forgotten all the other girls who had rejected him.

"Don't kick up your heels like that," said Peredonov. "You're hopping about like a young sheep! You'd better wait; you may have your nose pulled again."

But he said this only in jest, and he fully believed in the success of the match he had devised.

Grushina came to see Varvara almost every day. Varvara was at Grushina's even oftener, so that they were scarcely ever parted from each other. Varvara was agitated because Grushina delayed—she assured Varvara that it was very difficult to copy the handwriting so that the resemblance would be complete.

Peredonov still refrained from fixing a date for the wedding. Again he demanded his inspector's post first. Recollecting how many girls were ready to marry him, he more than once, as in the past winter, said to Varvara threateningly:

"I'm going out to get married. I shall be back in the morning with a wife and then out you go. This is your last night here!"

And having said this he would go—to play billiards. From there he would sometimes return home, but more often he would go carousing in some dirty hole with Routilov and Volodin. On such nights Varvara could not sleep. That is why she suffered from headaches. It was not so bad if he returned at one or two—then she could breathe freely. But if he did not turn up till the morning then the day found Varvara quite ill.

At last Grushina had finished the letter and showed it to Varvara. They examined it for a long time and compared it with the Princess's letter of last year. Grushina assured her that the letter was so like the other that the Princess herself would not recognise the forgery. Although there was actually little resemblance, Varvara believed her. She also realised that Peredonov would not remember the Princess's unfamiliar handwriting so minutely that he would see it was a forgery.

"At last!" she said joyously. "I have waited and waited, and I'd almost lost patience. But what shall I tell him about the envelope if he asks?"

"You can't very well forge an envelope; there's the post-mark," said Grushina laughing as she looked at Varvara with her cunning unequal eyes, one of them wider open than the other.

"What shall we do?"

"Varvara Dmitrievna darling, just tell him that you threw the envelope into the fire. What's the good of an envelope?"

Varvara's hopes revived. She said:

"Once we're married, he won't keep me any longer on the run. I'll do the sitting and he can do the running for me."

On Saturday after dinner Peredonov went to play billiards. His thoughts were heavy and melancholy. He thought:

"It's awful to live among hostile and envious people. But what can one do—they can't all be inspectors! That's the struggle for existence!"

At the corner of two streets he met the Officer of the gendarmerie—an unpleasant meeting.

Lieutenant-Colonel Nikolai Vadimovitch Roubovsky, a medium-sized, stout man with heavy eyebrows, cheerful grey eyes, and a limping gait which made his spurs jingle unevenly and loudly, was a very amiable person and was therefore popular in society. He knew all the people in town, all their affairs and relations, and loved to hear gossip, but was himself as discreet and silent as the grave, and caused no one any unnecessary unpleasantness.

They stopped, greeted each other and entered into conversation. Peredonov looked frowningly on each side and said cautiously:

"I hear that our Natasha is with you now. You mustn't believe anything she tells you about me, because she's lying."

"I don't listen to servants' gossip," said Roubovsky with dignity.

"She's really a bad one," said Peredonov, paying no attention to Roubovsky's remark; "her young man is a Pole; very likely she came to you on purpose to get hold of some official secret."

"Please don't worry about that," said the Lieutenant-Colonel dryly. "I haven't any plans of fortresses in my possession."

This introduction of fortresses perplexed Peredonov; it seemed to him that Roubovsky was hinting at something—that he thought of imprisoning Peredonov in a fortress.

"It's nothing to do with fortresses—it's a very different matter," he muttered. "But all sorts of stupid things are being said about me, for the most part from envy. Don't believe any of them. They're informing against me in order to get suspicion away from themselves, but I can do some informing myself."

Roubovsky was mystified.

"I assure you," he said, shrugging his shoulders and jingling his spurs, "that no one has informed against you. It is obvious that someone has been pulling your leg—people of course will talk nonsense sometimes."

Peredonov was mistrustful. He thought that the Lieutenant-Colonel was concealing something, and he suddenly felt a terrible apprehension.

Every time that Peredonov walked past Vershina's garden, Vershina would stop him and with her bewitching gestures and words would lure him into the garden. And he would enter, unwillingly yielding to her quiet witchery. Perhaps she had a better chance of succeeding in her purpose than the Routilovs—for was not Peredonov equally unrelated to them all, and therefore why should he not marry Marta? But it was evident that the morass into which Peredonov was sinking was so tenacious that no magic could ever have got him out of it into another.

And now after this meeting with Roubovsky, as Peredonov was walking past Vershina's, she, dressed in black as usual, enticed him in.

"Marta and Vladya are going home for the day," she said, looking tenderly at Peredonov with her cinnamon-coloured eyes through the smoke of her cigarette. "It wouldn't be a bad idea for you to spend the day with them in the village. A workman had just come in a cart for them."

"There isn't enough room," said Peredonov morosely.

"I think you could manage it," said Vershina, "and even if you have to squeeze in a little, it won't be a great hardship—you've only got six versts to go."

Meanwhile Marta ran out of the house to ask Vershina something. The excitement of getting off dissipated her usual languor and her face was livelier and more cheerful. They both tried to persuade Peredonov to go.

"You'll manage quite comfortably," Vershina assured him; "you and Marta can sit at the back, and Vladya and Ignaty in front. Look, there's the cart in the yard now."

Peredonov followed them into the yard where the cart was standing. Vladya was fussing about, putting various things in it. The cart was quite a large one, but Peredonov morosely surveyed it and announced:

"I'm not going. There isn't enough room. There are four of us and those things besides."

"Well, if you think it's going to be a tight squeeze," said Varshina, "Vladya can go on foot."

"Of course," said Vladya, with a suppressed grin. "I'll start at once and I'll get there before you."

Then Peredonov declared that the cart would jolt and that he did not like jolts. They returned to the summer-house. Everything was ready, but Ignaty was still in the kitchen eating slowly and solidly.

"How does Vladya get on with his lessons?" asked Marta.

She did not know what else to talk about with Peredonov, and Vershina had more than once reproached her for not knowing how to entertain him.

"Badly," said Peredonov; "he's lazy and doesn't pay attention."

Vershina loved to grumble. She began to scold Vladya.

The boy flushed and smiled, and shrivelled into his clothes as if he were cold, lifting one shoulder higher than the other, as his habit was.

"The year has only just begun," he said, "I've got plenty of time to catch up."

"You ought to start from the very beginning," said Marta in a very grown-up way, which slightly embarrassed her.

"Yes, he's always in mischief," said Peredonov. "Only yesterday, he was running about with some of the others as if they were street boys. He's impertinent too. Last Thursday he was quite cheeky to me."

Vladya suddenly flushed up with indignation, yet still smiled, and said:

"I wasn't impertinent. I only told the truth. The other copy-books had five mistakes not marked, and all mine were marked. And I only got two though mine was better than the boys who got three."

"And that wasn't the only time you were impertinent," persisted Peredonov.

"I wasn't impertinent, I only said that I would tell the inspector," said Vladya heatedly.

"Vladya, you forget yourself!" said Vershina angrily; "instead of apologising you're only repeating what you said."

Vladya suddenly remembered that he ought not to provoke Peredonov, as he might marry Marta. He grew even redder and in his confusion shifted his belt and said timidly:

"I'm sorry. I only meant to ask you to make the correction."

"Be quiet, please!" interrupted Vershina. "I can't stand such wrangling—I really can't," she repeated, and her thin body trembled almost imperceptibly. "You're being spoken to, so be silent," and Vershina poured out on Vladya many reproachful words, puffing at her cigarette and smiling her wry smile, as she usually did when she was talking, no matter what the subject was.

"We shall have to tell your father, so that he can punish you," she concluded.

"He needs birching," suggested Peredonov, and looked angrily at the offending Vladya.

"Certainly," agreed Vershina. "He needs birching."

"He needs birching," repeated Marta and blushed.

"I'm going with you to your father to-day," said Peredonov, "and I'll see that he gives you a good birching."

Vladya looked silently at his tormentors, shrank within himself and smiled through his tears. His father was a harsh man. Vladya tried to console himself with the thought that these were only threats. Surely, he thought, they would not really spoil his holiday. For a holiday was a specially happy occasion and not a schoolday affair.

But Peredonov was always pleased when he saw boys cry, especially when he so arranged it that they cried and apologised at the same time. Vladya's confusion, the suppressed tears in his eyes and his timid, guilty smile, all these gave Peredonov joy. He decided to accompany Marta and Vladya.

"Very well, I'll come with you," he said to Marta.

Marta was glad but a little frightened. Of course she wanted Peredonov to go with them, or it would perhaps be more truthful to say that Vershina wanted it for her, and had instilled the desire into her by suggestion. But now that Peredonov said that he would come, Marta somehow felt uneasy on Vladya's account—she felt sorry for him.

Vladya also became sad. Surely Peredonov was not going on his account? In the hope of appeasing Peredonov, he said:

"If you think, Ardalyon Borisitch, that it will be a tight squeeze, then I will go on foot."

Peredonov looked at him suspiciously and said:

"That's all very well, but if I let you go alone, you'll run away somewhere. No, I think we had better take you to your father and he'll give you what you deserve!"

Vladya flushed once more and sighed. He began to feel uneasy and depressed, and indignant at this cruel, morose man. To soften Peredonov's heart, he decided to make his seat more comfortable.

"I'll make it so that you won't feel the jolts," he said.

And he scurried hastily towards the cart. Vershina looked after him, still smoking, with her wry smile, and said quietly to Peredonov:

"They're all afraid of their father. He's very stern with them."

Marta flushed.

Vladya wanted to take with him to the village his new English fishing-rod, bought with his saved-up money. And he wanted to take something else. But this would have occupied room in the cart and so Vladya carried all his goods back into the house.

The weather was moderate, the sun was beginning to decline. The road, wet with the morning rain, was free of dust. The cart rolled evenly over the fine stones, carrying its four passengers from the town; the well-fed grey cob trotted along as if their weight were nothing, and the lazy, taciturn driver, Ignaty, drove the cob on a light rein.

Peredonov was seated beside Marta. They had made him a wide seat, so that Marta's was very uncomfortable. But he did not notice this. And even if he had noticed it, he would have thought it quite proper, since he was the guest.

Peredonov felt on very good terms with himself. He decided to talk very amiably to Marta, to joke with her and to entertain her. This is how he began:

"Well, are you going to rebel soon?"

"Why rebel?" asked Marta.

"You Poles are always getting ready to rebel—but it's useless."

"I'm not thinking about it at all," said Marta, "and there's no one among us who wants to rebel."

"Oh, you only say that—you really hate the Russians."

"We haven't any such idea," said Vladya, turning to Peredonov from the front seat.

"Yes, we know what sort of an idea you have about it," answered Peredonov. "But we're not going to give Poland back to you. We have conquered you. We have conferred many benefits on you and yet it's true that however well you feed a wolf he always looks towards the wood."

Marta said nothing.

After a short silence Peredonov said abruptly:

"The Poles have no brains."

Marta flushed.

"There are all kinds of people among both Russians and Poles," she said.

"No, what I say is true," persisted Peredonov, "the Poles are stupid. They only submit to force. Take the Jews—they're clever."

"The Jews are cheats—they're not clever at all," said Vladya.

"No, the Jews are a very clever people. The Jew always gets the best of a Russian, but a Russian never gets the best of a Jew."

"It isn't a great thing to get the best of other people," said Vladya. "Is mind only to be used for cheating?"

Peredonov looked angrily at Vladya.

"The mind is for learning, and you don't learn," he said.

Vladya sighed and turned away and began to watch the cob's even trotting. But Peredonov continued:

"The Jews are clever in everything. Clever in learning and in everything. If the Jews were allowed to become professors, all professors would be Jews. But the Polish women are all sluts."

He looked at Marta and noted with satisfaction that she blushed violently. He became amiable:

"Now, don't think that I'm talking about you. I know that you would be a good housekeeper."

"All Polish women are good housekeepers," replied Marta.

"Well, yes," said Peredonov, "they're good housekeepers. They're clean on top, but their petticoats are dirty. But then you had Mickiewicz.[1]He's better than our Pushkin. He hangs on my wall—Pushkin used to hang there, but I took him down and hung him in the privy. He was a lackey."

"But you're a Russian," said Vladya. "What's our Mickiewicz to you? Pushkin's a good poet and Mickiewicz's a good poet."

"Mickiewicz is better," asseverated Peredonov. "The Russians are fools. They've invented only the samovar—nothing else."

Peredonov looked at Marta, screwed up one eye and said:

"You've got a lot of freckles. That's not pretty."

"What can one do?" asked Marta, smiling.

"I've got freckles too," said Vladya, turning round on his narrow seat and brushing against the silent Ignaty.

"You're a boy," said Peredonov, "and so it doesn't matter. A man needn't be handsome; but it doesn't become a girl," he went on, turning to Marta. "No one will want to marry you. You ought to bathe your face in cucumber-brine."

Marta thanked him for his advice.

Vladya looked smilingly at Peredonov.

"What are you grinning at?" said Peredonov. "Just wait till we're there—then you'll get what's waiting for you."

Vladya, shifting in his seat, looked attentively at Peredonov and tried to find out if he were joking or speaking seriously. But Peredonov could not bear to have anyone stare at him.

"What are you eyeing me for?" he asked harshly. "There are no patterns on me. Are you trying to cast a spell on me?"

Vladya was frightened and turned away his eyes.

"I'm sorry," he added timidly, "I didn't do it on purpose."

"And do you believe in the evil eye?" asked Marta.

"Of course the evil eye is a superstition," said Peredonov angrily. "But it's so awfully rude to stare at people."

There was an awkward silence for the next few minutes.

"You're very poor, aren't you?" said Peredonov suddenly.

"Well, we're not rich," said Marta, "but still we're not so poor. Each one of us has a little something put aside."

Peredonov looked at her incredulously and said:

"I'm sure you're poor. You go barefoot at home every day."

"We don't do it from poverty," exclaimed Vladya.

"What then? From wealth?" asked Peredonov, and burst into a laugh.

"Not at all from poverty," said Vladya flushing. "It's very good for the health. It hardens one, and it's very pleasant in summer."

"You're lying," said Peredonov coarsely, "rich people don't go barefoot. Your father has a lot of children and hasn't got tuppence to keep them on. You can't afford to buy so many boots."

[1]Great Polish poet (1798-1855) who "is held to have been the greatest Slavonic poet with the exception of Pushkin."

Varvara had no knowledge of Peredonov's trip. She passed an extremely distressing night.

When Peredonov returned to town in the morning he did not go home, but asked to be driven to church—it was time for Mass. It seemed dangerous to him now not to go to church often—they might inform against him if he did not.

At the church gate he met a pleasant-looking schoolboy, with a rosy, ingenuous face and innocent blue eyes. Peredonov said to him:

"Hullo there, Mashenka, hullo, girlie!"

Misha Koudryavtsev flushed painfully. Peredonov often teased him by calling him "Mashenka"—Misha did not understand why and could not make up his mind to complain. A number of his companions, stupid youngsters elbowing each other, laughed at Peredonov's words. They too liked to tease Misha.

The church, dedicated to the prophet Elias, an old structure built in the days of Tsar Mikhail, stood in the square, facing the school. For this reason, on church holidays, at Mass and for Vespers, the schoolboys had to gather here and to stand in rows on the left by the chapel of St. Catherine the Martyr, while behind them stood one of the assistant masters in order to keep discipline. Here also in a row, nearer the centre of the church, stood the form masters, as well as the inspector and the Head-Master, with their families. It was usual for nearly all the orthodox schoolboys to gather here, except the few who were permitted to attend their parish churches with their parents.

The choir of schoolboys sang well, and for this reason the church was attended by merchants of the First Guild, officials and the families of landed gentry. There were only a few of the common folk—especially since, in conformity with the Head-Master's wish, Mass was celebrated there later than in other churches.

Peredonov stood in his usual place, from which he could see all the members of the choir. Screwing up his eyes, he looked at them and thought that they were standing out of their places. If he had been inspector he would have pulled them up. There was, for example, a smooth-faced boy, named Kramarenko, a small, thin, fidgety youngster who was constantly turning this way and that way, whispering, smiling—and there was no one to keep him in order. It seemed to be no one's affair.

"What confusion!" thought Peredonov. "These choir-boys are all good-for-nothings. That dark youngster there has a fine, clear soprano—so he thinks he can whisper and grin in church."

And Peredonov frowned.

At his side stood a late-comer, the inspector of the National Schools, Sergey Potapovitch Bogdanov, an oldish man with a brown, stupid face, who always looked as if he wanted to explain to somebody something which he could never make head or tail of himself. No one was easier to frighten or to astonish than Bogdanov: no sooner did he hear anything new or disquieting than his forehead would become wrinkled from his inward, painful efforts and from his mouth would issue a string of incoherent and perplexed exclamations.

Peredonov bent towards him and said in a whisper:

"One of your schoolmistresses walks about in a red shirt!"

Bogdanov was alarmed. His white Adam's apple twitched with fear under his chin.

"What do you say?" he whispered hoarsely. "Who is she?"

"The loud-voiced, fat one—I don't know what her name is," whispered Peredonov.

"The loud-voiced one, the loud-voiced one," repeated Bogdanov in a confused way, "that must be Skobotchkina. Yes?"

"Yes, that must be the one," declared Peredonov.

"Well! Good heavens! Who'd have thought that!" exclaimed Bogdanov. "Skobotchkina in a red shirt! Well! Did you see it with your own eyes?"

"Yes, I saw her, and they tell me she goes into school like that. And sometimes even worse; she puts on a sarafan[1]and walks about like a common girl."

"You don't say so! I must look into it! We can't have that! We can't have that! She'll have to be dismissed, dismissed, I say," babbled on Bogdanov. "She was always like that."

Mass was over. As they were leaving the church, Peredonov said to Kramarenko:

"Here, you whippety-snippet! Why were you grinning in church? Just wait, I shall tell your father!"

Kramarenko looked at Peredonov in astonishment and ran past him without speaking. He belonged to that number of pupils who thought Peredonov coarse, stupid and unjust, and who therefore disliked and despised him. The majority of the pupils thought similarly. Peredonov imagined that these were the boys who had been prejudiced against him by the Head-Master, if not personally, at least through his sons.

Peredonov was approached on the other side of the fence by Volodin. He was chuckling happily, and his face was as cheerful as if it were his birthday; he wore a bowler hat and carried his cane in the fashionable way.

"I've something to tell you, Ardalyon Borisitch," he said gleefully. "I've managed to persuade Cherepnin, and very soon he's going to smear Marta's gate with tar!"

Peredonov said nothing for a moment. He seemed to be considering something, and then suddenly burst into his usual morose laughter. Volodin at once ceased grinning, assumed a sober look, straightened his bowler hat, looked at the sky, swung his stick and said:

"It's a fine day, but it looks as if it will rain this evening. Well, let it rain; I shall spend the evening at the future inspector's house."

"I can't waste any time at home now," said Peredonov, "I've got more important affairs to attend to in town."

Volodin looked as if he comprehended, though he really had no idea what business Peredonov had to attend to. Peredonov determined that he must, without fail, make several visits. Yesterday's chance meeting with the Lieutenant-Colonel had suggested to him an idea which now seemed to him very important: to make the rounds of all important personages of the town to assure them of his loyalty. If he should succeed, then, in an emergency, Peredonov would find defenders in the town who would testify to the correctness of his attitude.

"Where are you going, Ardalyon Borisitch?" asked Volodin, seeing that Peredonov was turning off from the path by which he usually went back from church. "Aren't you going home?"

"Yes, I'm going home," answered Peredonov, "but I don't like to go along that street now."

"Why?"

"There's a lot ofdurman[2]growing there, and the smell's very strong. I'm very much affected by it—it stupefies me. My nerves are on edge just now. I seem to have nothing but worries."

Volodin's face once more assumed a comprehending and sympathetic expression.

On the way Peredonov pulled off some thistle-heads and put them in his pocket.

"What do you want those thistle-heads for?" asked Volodin with a grin.

"For the cat," answered Peredonov gruffly.

"Are you going to stick them in its fur?" asked Volodin.

"Yes."

Volodin sniggered.

"Don't begin without me," he cried.

Peredonov asked him to come in at once, but Volodin declared that he had an appointment: he suddenly felt that it wasn't the right thing not to have appointments; Peredonov's words about his affairs had inspired him with the idea that it would be well for him to visit the Adamenko girl on his own, and to tell her that he had some new, splendid drawings which needed framing—perhaps she would like to look at them. "In any case," thought Volodin, "Nadezhda Vassilyevna will ask me to have a cup of coffee."

And so that was what Volodin did. He suddenly invented another scheme: he proposed to Nadezhda Vassilyevna that her brother should take up carpentry. Nadezhda Vassilyevna imagined that Volodin was in need of money, and she immediately consented. They agreed to work for two hours three times a week, for which Volodin was to get thirty roubles a month. Volodin was in raptures—here was some cash and the possibility of frequent meetings with Nadezhda Vassilyevna.

Peredonov returned home gloomy as usual. Varvara, pale from her sleepless night, grumbled:

"You might have told me yesterday that you weren't coming home."

Peredonov provoked her by saying maliciously that he had been on a trip with Marta. Varvara was silent. She held the Princess's letter in her hand. It was a forged letter, but still——.

She said to him at luncheon, with a meaning smile:

"While you were gadding about with Marfushka, I received an answer from the Princess."

"I didn't know you wrote to her." Peredonov's face lighted up with a gleam of dull expectation.

"Well, that's good! Didn't you yourself tell me to write?"

"Well, what did she say?" asked Peredonov with some agitation.

"Here's the letter—read it for yourself."

Varvara fumbled for a long time in her pockets and finally found the letter and gave it to Peredonov. He stopped eating and grabbed the letter eagerly. He read it and was overjoyed. Here at last was a clear and definite promise. At the moment no doubts entered his mind. He quickly finished his luncheon and went out to show the letter to his acquaintances and friends.

With a grim animation he entered Vershina's garden. Vershina, as nearly always, was standing at the gate smoking. She was very pleased: formerly, she had to lure him in, now he came in himself. Vershina thought:

"That comes of his going on a trip with Marta; he spent some time with her and now he's come again. I wonder if he means to propose to her?"

Peredonov disillusioned her immediately by showing her the letter.

"You kept disbelieving it," he said, "and here the Princess has written. Read that and see for yourself."

Vershina looked incredulously at the letter, quickly blew tobacco smoke on it several times running, made a wry smile and asked quietly and quickly:

"But where's the envelope?"

Peredonov suddenly felt alarmed. He suspected that Varvara was trying to deceive him and had written the letter herself. He must get the envelope from her at once.

"I don't know," he said, "I must ask."

He said good-bye to Vershina and went quickly back to his own house. It was absolutely necessary for him to assure himself as soon as possible of the source of the letter—the sudden doubt tormented him. Vershina, standing at the gate, looked after him with her wry smile, rapidly puffing out cigarette smoke, as if she were trying to finish the cigarette like a tiresome lesson.

Peredonov came running home with a frightened and tormented face, and while yet in the passage he shouted in a voice hoarse with agitation:

"Varvara! Where's the envelope?"

"What envelope?" asked Varvara in a trembling voice.

She looked at Peredonov insolently and would have flushed had she not been already rouged.

"The envelope, from the Princess, of the letter you gave me to-day," explained Peredonov, with a look half-frightened, half-malignant.

Varvara gave a forced laugh.

"I burnt it. What good was it to me?" she said. "Why should I keep it? I'm not making a collection of envelopes. You can't get any money for envelopes. You can only get money for empty bottles at a pub."

Peredonov walked gloomily about the rooms and growled:

"There are all sorts of Princesses—we know that. Perhaps this Princess lives here."

Varvara pretended not to understand his suspicions, but yet trembled violently.

When, towards evening, Peredonov strolled past Vershina's cottage, she stopped him.

"Have you found the envelope?" she asked.

"Vara tells me she burnt it."

Vershina laughed, and the white, thin clouds of tobacco smoke wavered before her in the quiet, cool air.

"It's strange," she said, "that your cousin is so careless. Here's an important letter—and no envelope! You might have been able to tell from the post-mark when it was sent and where from."

Peredonov was extremely irritated. In vain Vershina invited him into the garden; in vain she promised to look in the cards for him—Peredonov left.

Nevertheless, he showed the letter to his friends and boasted. And his friends believed him.

But Peredonov did not know whether to believe or not. At all events, he decided to begin on Tuesday his round of visits to important personages in the town to strengthen his position. He decided not to begin on Monday, as it was an unlucky day.

[1]Sarafan, national peasant-woman's costume.

[2]Seenote 2 ch. V

As soon as Peredonov left to play billiards Varvara went off to see Grushina. They argued for a long time, and at last decided to mend the matter with another letter. Varvara knew that Grushina had friends in Peterburg. With their assistance it would be easy to get the letter posted in Peterburg.

Just as on the first occasion, Grushina for a long time pretended to have scruples.

"Oh, Varvara Dmitrievna darling!" she said. "Even the first letter makes me tremble. I'm always afraid. Whenever I see a police inspector near the house I almost faint. I think they're coming for me to take me to jail."

For a whole hour Varvara tried to persuade her. She promised her all sorts of gifts, and even offered a little money in advance. In the end Grushina agreed. They decided to act in this way: First, Varvara would say that she had replied to the Princess's letter, thanking her; then, after several days, a letter would arrive, ostensibly from the Princess. In that letter it would be even more definitely stated that there were certain positions in view, and that as soon as they were married it would be possible, with a little effort, to procure one for Peredonov. This letter, like the first, would be written by Grushina—then they would seal it up, put a seven kopeck stamp on it, Grushina would enclose it in a letter to her friend in Peterburg, who would drop it into a letter-box.

Presently Varvara and Grushina set out to a shop at the extreme end of the town and there bought a packet of narrow envelopes with a coloured lining, and some coloured paper, the last of the kind in the shop. This precaution had been suggested by Grushina in order to help conceal the forgery. The narrow envelopes were chosen so that the forged letter could easily be enclosed in another envelope.

When they got back to Grushina's house they composed the Princess's letter. When, in the course of a couple of days, the letter was ready, they scented it with Chypre. The remaining envelopes and paper they burnt, so that no trace should be left.

Grushina wrote to her friend, telling her the precise day on which the letter was to be posted—they calculated for the letter to arrive on Sunday, when Peredonov was at home. This would be an additional proof of the letter's genuineness.

On Tuesday Peredonov tried to get home earlier from school. Circumstances helped him: his last lesson was in a class-room whose door opened into the corridor where the clock hung and where the school porter, an alert ex-sergeant, rang the bell at stated intervals. Peredonov sent the porter into the office to get the class-book, and himself put the clock a quarter of an hour forward. No one noticed him.

At home Peredonov refused his luncheon and asked for dinner to be prepared later—he had certain business to attend to.

"They tangle and tangle and I must untangle," said he angrily, thinking of the snares which his enemies were preparing for him.

He put on a frock-coat which he seldom wore and in which he felt constrained and uneasy: his body had grown stouter with years, and the frock-coat sat badly on him. He was annoyed because he had no orders or decorations to wear. Other people had them—even Falastov of the Town School had—and he, Peredonov, had none. It was all the Head-Master's malice: not once had he been nominated. He was sure of his rank: this the Head-Master could not take away—but what was the use of that, if there were no visible signs of it? However, his new uniform would show his rank: it was pleasant to think that the epaulettes of this uniform would be according to the rank and not according to the class he taught. This would look important—the epaulettes like a general's and one large star. Everyone in the street could see at once that a State Councillor was walking by. "I shall have to order my new uniform soon," thought Peredonov.

He went into the street and only then he began to wonder with whom he should begin.

It seemed to him that in his circumstances the most important people were the Commissioner of Police and the District Attorney. It was obvious that he ought to begin with them or possibly with the Marshal of the Nobility. But at the thought of starting with them he was seized with apprehension. Marshal Veriga was after all a general who had a governorship in view. The Commissioner of Police and the District Attorney were the terrible representatives of the police and the law.

"At the beginning," thought Peredonov, "I ought to begin with the lesser officials and then look about me and nose around—then it will be clear how they'll treat me and what they'll say about me." This is why Peredonov decided that it would be wiser to begin with the Mayor. Although he was a merchant and had only been educated in the District school, still he went about everywhere and everyone came to his house. His position gave him the respect of the town, and even in other towns and in the capital he had quite important acquaintances.

And Peredonov resolutely turned in the direction of the Mayor's house.

The weather was gloomy, the leaves fell from the boughs submissively and wearily. Peredonov felt somewhat apprehensive. In the Mayor's house a smell of freshly-waxed parquet floors mingled with a barely perceptible and yet pleasant odour of food. It was quiet and depressing there. The Mayor's children, a schoolboy and a growing girl—"She has a governess to look after her," her father used to say—were decorously in their rooms. There it was cosy, restful and cheerful; the windows looked out on the garden; the furniture was comfortable; there were all sorts of games in the rooms and in the garden. The children's voices sounded cheerfully.

In the first-floor rooms, facing the street, where visitors were received, everything was affected and severe. The red wood furniture was like immensely magnified toy models; it was quite awkward for ordinary people to sit in—when you sat down you felt as if you had dropped on a stone, but the heavy host seemed to sit down quite comfortably. The Archimandrite of the suburban monastery, who often visited the Mayor, called these "soul-saving chairs," to which the Mayor would answer: "Yes, I don't like those womanish luxuries that you see in other houses. You sit down on springs and you shake—you shake yourself and the furniture shakes—what's the use of that? And in any case the doctors also don't approve of soft furniture."

The Mayor, Yakov Anikyevitch Skouchayev, met Peredonov on the threshold of his drawing-room. He was a tall, robust man with closely cropped dark hair; he comported himself with dignity and courtesy, though not altogether free from contemptuousness towards people of small means.

Peredonov sat down heavily in a broad chair and said in answer to his host's first polite questions:

"I've come on business."

"With pleasure. What can I do for you?" said the Mayor politely.

In his cunning little black eyes suddenly glimmered a spark of contempt. He thought that Peredonov had come to borrow money, and decided that he could not let him have more than a hundred and fifty roubles. There were quite a number of officials in town who owed Skouchayev more or less significant sums. Skouchayev never referred to the loan, but he never extended further credit to the delinquent debtors. He always gave willingly the first time according to the standing and condition of the borrower.

"You, as Mayor, Yakov Anikyevitch, are the first personage in the town," said Peredonov. "That's why I came to have a talk with you."

Skouchayev assumed an important air and inclined his head slightly as he sat in the chair.

"All sorts of scandal are being spread about me," said Peredonov morosely. "They invent things that never happened."

"You can't gag other people's mouths," said the Mayor. "And, in any case, in our little Palestines it's well known that gossips have nothing to do except to wag their tongues."

"They say I don't go to church, but that's not true," continued Peredonov. "I do go; it's true I didn't go on St. Elias' day, but that was because I had a stomach ache. Otherwise I always go."

"That's quite true," the host confirmed, "I happened to see you there myself, though I don't often go to your church, I usually go to the monastery. It's been a custom of our family for a long time."

"All sorts of scandal are being spread about me," said Peredonov. "They say that I tell the schoolboys nasty tales, but that's nonsense. Of course, I sometimes tell them something amusing at a lesson, to make it interesting. You yourself have a boy at school. Now, he hasn't told you anything of the sort about me, has he?"

"That's quite true," agreed Skouchayev. "Nothing of the sort has happened. However, youngsters are usually cunning, they never repeat what they know they oughtn't to repeat. Of course, my boy is still quite small. He's young enough to have repeated something silly, but I assure you he has said nothing of the sort."

"And in the elder classes they know everything for themselves," went on Peredonov. "But, of course, I never say anything improper there."

"Naturally," replied Skouchayev, "a school is not a market place."

"That's the kind of people they are here," complained Peredonov. "They invent tales of things that never happened. That's why I've come to you—you're the Mayor of the town."

Skouchayev felt very flattered that Peredonov had come to him. He did not understand what it was all about, but he was shrewd enough not to show his lack of comprehension.

"And there are other things being said about me," continued Peredonov. "For one thing that I live with Varvara—they say that she's not my cousin but my mistress. And she's only a cousin to me—honest to God! She's a very distant relative—only a third cousin; there's nothing against marrying her. Indeed I'm going to marry her."

"So-o. So-o. Of course!" said Skouchayev reflectively. "Besides, a bride's wreath ends the matter."

"It was impossible earlier," said Peredonov. "I had important reasons. It was utterly impossible, or I should have married long ago, believe me."

Skouchayev assumed an air of dignity, frowned, and, tapping on the dark tablecloth with his plump white fingers, said:

"I believe you. If that is so, it alters the case entirely. I believe you now. I must confess that it was a little dubious for you to live, if you will permit me to say so, with your companion without marrying her. It was very dubious, perhaps because—well, you know children are an impressionable race; they're apt to pick things up. It's hard to teach them what's good, but the bad comes easily to them. That's why it was really dubious. And besides, whose business is it? That's how I look at it. It flatters me that you've come to complain to me, because although I'm only one of the common folk—I didn't go beyond the District school—still I have the respect and confidence of society. This is my third year as Mayor, so that my word counts for something among the burgesses."

Skouchayev talked and all the time entangled himself in his own thoughts, and it seemed as if he would never end his tongue-spinning. He stopped abruptly and thought irritatedly:

"This is a waste of time. That's the trouble with these learned men. You can't understand what they want. Everything's clear to him, to the learned man, in his books, but as soon as he gets his nose out of his books, he tangles up himself and tangles up other people."

He fixed his eye on Peredonov with a look of perplexity, his keen eyes grew dull, his stout body relapsed into the chair, and he seemed no longer the brisk man of action but simply a rather foolish old man.

Peredonov was silent for a while, as if he were bewitched by his host's last words. Then, screwing up his eyes with an indefinable clouded expression, he said:

"You're the Mayor of the town, so you can say that it's all nonsense."

"That is, in what respect?" inquired Skouchayev cautiously.

"Well," explained Peredonov, "if they should inform against me in the District—that I don't go to church or something or other—then if they should come and ask you might put in a word for me."

"This we can do," said the Mayor. "In any case, you can rely on us. If anything should happen, then we'll stand up for you—why shouldn't we put in a word for a good man? We might even send in a testimonial from the Town Council. That's all we can do. Or perhaps, if you like, we can give you a personal recommendation from some prominent citizen. Why not? We can do it, if it comes to the pinch."

"So I may depend on you?" said Peredonov gravely, as if replying to something not altogether pleasant to him. "There's the Head-Master always persecuting me."

"You don't say so!" exclaimed Skouchayev, shaking his head sympathetically. "I can't imagine how that can be, except from slanders. Nikolai Vlasyevitch, it seems to me, is a very reliable man, who wouldn't injure anyone for nothing. I can judge that from his son. He's a serious, rigid man, who allows no indulgences and makes no personal distinctions. In short, he's a reliable man. It couldn't be except from slanders. Why are you at loggerheads?"

"We don't agree in our views," explained Peredonov. "And there are people in the school who are jealous of me—they all want to be inspectors. It's because Princess Volchanskaya has promised to get me an inspector's job, and so they're mad with jealousy."

"So-o. So-o," said Skouchayev cautiously. "But in any case, why should we go on with our tongues dry? Let's have a snack and a drink."

Skouchayev pressed the button of the electric bell near the hanging lamp.

"That's a handy trick!" said he to Peredonov. "I think it wouldn't be bad for you to get into another official position. Now, Dashenka," he said to the pleasant looking maid-servant of heavy build who came in answer to the bell, "bring in somezakouskaand some coffee, piping hot kind—d'you understand?"

"Yes," replied Dashenka, smiling, as she walked out with a remarkably light step considering her heaviness.

"Yes, in another department," Skouchayev turned to Peredonov again. "Say, in the ecclesiastical. If you take holy orders, you would make quite a serious, reliable priest. I could help you into it. I have influential friends among the Church dignitaries."

Skouchayev named several diocesan and suffragan bishops.

"No, I don't want to be a priest," answered Peredonov. "I'm afraid of the incense—it makes me feel sick and giddy."

"Well, if that's the case, why don't you join the police," advised Skouchayev. "You might, for example, become a Commissioner of Police. Do you mind telling me what your rank is?"

"I'm a State Councillor," said Peredonov importantly.

"Well, well!" exclaimed Skouchayev in surprise. "You certainly get high rank in your profession—and all that because you teach the youngsters? That shows knowledge is something! Though nowadays there are certain gentlemen who attack it, still we can't do without it. Though I only went to a District school, I am sending my boy to a University. When you send him to agymnasiayou have to force him to go, sometimes with a birch, but he'll go to a University of his own free will. Let me say that I never birch him, but if he gets lazy or does something naughty, I simply take him by the shoulders to the window—there are birch trees in the garden. I point to the trees—'Do you see that?' I say to him. 'I see, papa,' he says; 'I won't do it again!' And true enough it helps—the youngster mends his ways as if he'd actually been whipped. Ah, those children! those children!" concluded Skouchayev with a sigh.

Peredonov remained two hours at Skouchayev's. The business talk was followed by abundant hospitality.

Skouchayev regaled him—as he did everything else—very solidly, as if he were conducting an important affair. At the same time he tried to introduce some ingenious tricks into his hospitality. They brought punch in large glasses like coffee, and the host called it his "little coffee." The vodka glasses looked as if the foot had been broken off and the stem sharpened so that they would not stand upright on the table.

"Now I call these, 'Pour in and pour out,'" exclaimed the host.

Then the merchant Tishkov arrived, a small, grey-haired, brisk and cheerful man in very long boots. He drank a great deal of vodka and said all sorts of absurdities in rhyme[1], briskly and gaily, and it was obvious that he was very satisfied with himself.

Peredonov decided at last that it was time to go home, and he rose to take his leave.

"Don't be in such a hurry," said the host, "stay a while."

"Stay a while and help us smile," said Tishkov.

"No, it's time to leave," replied Peredonov with a preoccupied air.

"It's time to leave or his cousin'll grieve," said Tishkov and winked at Skouchayev.

"Just now I'm a busy man," said Peredonov.

"He who's a busy man we praise him all we can," answered Tishkov promptly.

Skouchayev escorted Peredonov to the hall. They embraced and kissed each other at parting. Peredonov was pleased with his visit. "The Mayor's on my side," he thought confidently.

When he returned to Tishkov, Skouchayev said:

"They gossip about that youth."

"They may gossip about that youth, but they don't know the truth," Tishkov caught him up immediately, deftly pouring himself a glass of English bitter.

It was evident that he was not paying attention to what was said to him, but that he only caught up words for the sake of rhyme.

"He's not a bad fellow," said Skouchayev. "He's a hearty chap and he's not a fool at drinking," continued Skouchayev as he poured himself a drink, paying no attention to Tishkov's rhyming.

"If he's not a fool at drinking, then he's not an ass at thinking," shouted Tishkov gaily, swallowing his drink at one gulp.

"That he's fussing around with a Mam'zell—what does that matter!" said Skouchayev.

"Well, he's got a Mam'zell, but she may be a damn sell," replied Tishkov.

"He who has not sinned against God is not responsible to the Tsar."

"Against God we've all sinned; by love we're all pinned."

"But he wants to hide his sin under a bridal-wreath."

"They'll hide sin under a bridal wreath and tear each other with furious teeth."

Tishkov always talked in this way when the conversation did not concern his own affairs. He might have bored everybody to tears, but they had all got used to him and did not notice his brisk rhyming; but occasionally they let him loose on a new-comer. But it was all the same to Tishkov whether they listened to him or not; he could not help catching up other people's words to make rhymes, and he acted with the infallibility of a shrewdly devised boring-machine. If you looked at his quick, precise movements, you might conclude that he was not a living person, that he was already dead or had never lived, and that he saw nothing in the living world and heard nothing but dead-sounding words.

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