[1]This rhyming fellow is not such a rare specimen as may seem to the English reader. The tendency to speak in rhymes is rather common among Russian peasants. Therayeshnikis an interesting native institution. He usually improvises rhymes at gatherings and entertainments in open places, especially at carnivals and fairs. There is also thebalagani d'yed(the tent grandfather), who appears in a tent in a long white beard of flax, and makes jests in rhymes. It is an institution that is gradually disappearing.
[1]This rhyming fellow is not such a rare specimen as may seem to the English reader. The tendency to speak in rhymes is rather common among Russian peasants. Therayeshnikis an interesting native institution. He usually improvises rhymes at gatherings and entertainments in open places, especially at carnivals and fairs. There is also thebalagani d'yed(the tent grandfather), who appears in a tent in a long white beard of flax, and makes jests in rhymes. It is an institution that is gradually disappearing.
The next day Peredonov went to see the District Attorney Avinovitsky.
Again it was a gloomy day. The wind came in violent blasts, and whirled clouds of dust before it. The evening was coming on, and everything was permeated with the dead melancholy light of bleak skies. A depressing silence filled the streets, and it seemed as if all these pitiful houses had sprung up to no purpose, as if these hopelessly decayed structures timidly hinted at the poor tedious life that lurked within their walls. A few people walked in the streets—and they walked slowly, as if they barely conquered the drowsiness that inclined them to repose. Only children, eternal, unwearying vessels of divine joy, were lively, and ran about and played—but even they showed signs of inertia, and some sort of ugly, hidden monster, nestling behind their shoulders, looked out now and then with eyes full of menace upon their suddenly dulled faces.
In the midst of the depression of these streets and houses, under estranged skies, upon the unclean and impotent earth, walked Peredonov, tormented by confused fears—there was no comfort for him in the heights and no consolation upon the earth, because now, as before, he looked upon the world with dead eyes, like some demon who, in his dismal loneliness, despaired with fear and with yearning.
His feelings were dull, and his consciousness was a corrupting and deadening apparatus. All that reached his consciousness became transformed into abomination and filth. All objects revealed their imperfections to him and their imperfections gave him pleasure. When he walked past an erect and clean column, he had a desire to make it crooked and to bespatter it with filth. He laughed with joy when something was being besmirched in his presence. He detested very clean schoolboys, and persecuted them. He called them "the skin scrubbers." He comprehended the slovenly ones more easily. There were neither beloved objects for him, nor beloved people—and this made it possible for nature to act upon his feelings only one-sidedly, as an irritant. The same was true of his meetings with people. Especially with strangers and new acquaintances, to whom it was not possible to be impolite. Happiness for him was to do nothing, and, shutting himself in from the world, to gratify his belly.
"And now I must go against my will," he thought, "and explain matters." What a burden! What a bore! If he had an opportunity at least of besmirching the place he was about to visit—but even this consolation was denied to him.
The District Attorney's house only intensified Peredonov's feeling of grim apprehension. And really, this house had an angry, evil look. The high roof descended gloomily upon the windows which came in contact with the ground. And its wooden border, and the roof itself had at one time been painted gaily and brightly, but time and the rains had turned the colouring gloomy and grey. The huge ponderous gates, towering above the house, and fitted as it were to repel hostile attacks, were always bolted. Behind them rattled a chain and a huge dog howled in a hoarse bass at every passer-by.
All around were uncultivated spots, vegetable gardens and hovels which stood awry. In front of the District Attorney's house, was a long hexagonal space, the middle of which, somewhat deeper than the rest, was all unpaved, and overgrown with grass. At the house itself stood a lamp-post, the only one to be seen.
Peredonov slowly and unwillingly ascended the four high steps leading to the porch which was covered with a double-sloped roof, and pulled the begrimed handle of the bell. The bell resounded quite close to him, with a sharp and continuous tinkle. Soon stealthy footsteps were heard. Someone seemed to approach the door on tip-toes, and then remained standing there intensely still. Very likely someone was looking at him through some invisible crevice. Then there was the creak of iron hinges, and the door opened—a gloomy, black-haired, freckled girl stood on the threshold and looked at him with eyes full of suspicious scrutiny.
"Whom do you want?" she asked.
Peredonov said that he had come to see Aleksandr Alekseyevitch on business. The girl let him in. No sooner had he crossed the threshold than he made haste to pronounce a charm. And it was well that he did so: he had not yet had time to take off his coat when he heard Avinovitsky's sharp, angry voice coming from the drawing-room. There was always something terrifying in the District Attorney's voice—he could not speak otherwise. So even now he was already shouting in the drawing-room in his angry and abusive voice a greeting of welcome and joy that Peredonov had at last thought of coming to him.
Aleksandr Alekseyevitch Avinovitsky was a man of gloomy appearance; and seemed by nature fitted to reprimand and overbear others. A man of impeccable health—he bathed from ice to ice—he appeared nevertheless lean because of his shaggy, overgrown black beard, with a tinge of blue in it. He brought uneasiness if not fear upon everyone, because he incessantly shouted at someone, and threatened someone with hard labour in Siberia.
"I've come on business," said Peredonov confusedly.
"Have you come with a confession? Have you killed a man? Have you committed arson? Have you robbed the post?" asked Avinovitsky angrily as he admitted Peredonov into the drawing-room. "Or have you been the victim of a crime yourself, which is more possible in our town. Ours is a filthy town and its police is even worse. I'm astonished that you don't find dead bodies every morning lying about the place. Well, sit down. What is your business? Are you the criminal or the victim?"
"No," said Peredonov, "I haven't done anything of the kind. Now there's the Head-Master who'd undoubtedly like to settle my hash for me, but I haven't any such thing in mind."
"So you haven't come with a confession?" asked Avinovitsky.
"No, I can't say that I have," mumbled Peredonov timidly.
"Well, if that's the case," said the District Attorney with savage emphasis, "then let me offer you something."
He picked up a small handbell from the table and rang it. No one came. Avinovitsky took the handbell in both hands, raised a furious racket, then threw the bell on the floor, stamped his feet and shouted in a savage voice:
"Malanya! Malanya! Devils! Beasts! Demons!"
Unhurried footsteps were heard and a schoolboy came in, Avinovitsky's son, a stubby, black-haired boy of about thirteen years of age with an air of confidence and self-assurance. He greeted Peredonov, picked up the bell, put in on the table and said quietly:
"Malanya is in the vegetable garden."
Avinovitsky recovered his calm for a moment, and looking at his son with a tenderness that did not altogether become his overgrown and angry face, he said:
"Now run along, sonny, and tell her to bring us something to drink and somezakouska."
The boy leisurely walked out of the room. His father looked after him with a pleased and proud smile. But while the boy was still on the threshold Avinovitsky suddenly frowned savagely and shouted in his terrible voice which made Peredonov tremble:
"Look alive!"
The schoolboy began to run and they could hear how impetuously he slammed the doors. Avinovitsky, smiling with his heavy red lips, again renewed his angry-sounding conversation:
"My heir—not bad, eh? What's he going to turn out like? What do you say? He may become a fool, but a knave, a coward or a rag—never!"
"Well—a——" mumbled Peredonov.
"People are trivial nowadays—they're a parody of the human race!" roared Avinovitsky. "They consider health a trifle. Some German invented under-waistcoats. Now I would have sent that German to hard labour. Imagine my Vladimir suddenly in an under-waistcoat! Why all summer he walked about in the village without once putting his boots on, and then think of him in an under-waistcoat! Why, he even gets out of his bath and runs naked in a frost and rolls in the snow—think of him in an under-waistcoat. A hundred lashes for the accursed German!"
Avinovitsky passed from the German who invented under-waistcoats to other criminals.
"Capital punishment, my dear sir, is not barbarism!" he shouted. "Science admits that there are born criminals. There's nothing to be said for them, my friend. They ought to be destroyed and not supported by the State. A man's a scoundrel—and they give him a warm corner in a convict prison. He's a murderer, an incendiary, a seducer, but the tax-payer must support him out of his pocket. No-o! It's much juster and cheaper to hang them."
The round table in the dining-room was covered with a white tablecloth with a red border, and upon it were distributed plates with fat sausages and other salted, smoked, and pickled eatables, and decanters and bottles of various sizes and forms, containing all sorts of vodkas, brandies and liqueurs. Everything was to Peredonov's taste, and even the slight carelessness of their arrangement pleased him.
The host continued to shout. Apropos of the food, he began to abuse the shopkeepers, and then for some reason began to talk about ancestry.
"Ancestry is a big thing," he shouted savagely, "for the muzhiks to enter the aristocracy is stupid, absurd, impractical and immoral. The soil is getting poorer and the cities are filled with unemployed. Then there are bad harvests, idleness and suicides—how does that please you? You may teach the muzhik as much as you like but don't give him any rank—it makes a peasantry lose its best members and it always remains rabble and cattle. And the gentry also suffer detriment from the influx of uncultured elements. In his own village he was better than others, but when he gets into a higher rank he brings into it something coarse, unknightly and plebeian. In the first case the most important things are gain and his stomach. No-o, my dear fellow, the castes were a wise institution."
"Here, for instance, our Head-Master lets all sorts of riff-raff into the school," said Peredonov angrily. "There are even peasant children there and many commoners' children."
"Fine doings, I must say!" shouted the host.
"There's a circular saying that we shouldn't admit all kinds of riff-raff, but he does as he likes," complained Peredonov. "He refuses hardly anyone. Life is rather poorish in our town, he says, and there are too few pupils as it is. What does he mean by few? It would be better if there were less. It's all we can do to correct the exercise-books alone. There's no time to read the school-books. They purposely write dubious words in their compositions—you have to look in Grote to see how they're spelled."
"Have some brandy," suggested Avinovitsky. "Well, what is your business with me?"
"I have enemies," growled Peredonov, as he looked dejectedly into his glass of yellow vodka before drinking it.
"There was once a pig who lived without enemies," said Avinovitsky, "and he also was slaughtered. Have a bit—it was a very good pig."
Peredonov took a slice of ham and said: "They're spreading all sorts of scandal about me."
"Well, as for gossip I can assure you that no town is worse," shouted the host. "What a town! No matter what you do, all the pigs begin to grunt at you at once."
"Princess Volchanskaya has promised to get me an inspector's job, and suddenly they all begin to gossip. This might hurt my prospects. It all comes from envy. Now there's the Head-Master, he's corrupted the entire school—the schoolboys, who live in apartments, smoke, drink and run after girls and even the town-boys are no better. He's done all the corrupting himself and now he persecutes me. It's likely that someone's carried tales to him about me. And then it goes still farther. It might reach the Princess."
Peredonov dwelt long and incoherently on his apprehensions. Avinovitsky listened with an angry countenance and punctuated his discourse with exclamations:
"Villains! Scamps! Children of Herod!"
"What sort of Nihilist am I?" said Peredonov. "It's ridiculous. I have an official cap with a badge, but I don't always wear it—and I sometimes wear a bowler. As for the fact that Mickiewicz hangs on my wall, I put him there because of his poetry and not because he was a rebel. I haven't even read his 'Kolokol.'"[1]
"Well, you've caught that from another opera," said Avinovitsky unceremoniously. "Herzen published it and not Mickiewicz."
"That was another 'Kolokol,'" said Peredonov. "Mickiewicz also published a 'Kolokol.'"
"I didn't know it—you'd better publish the fact. It would be a great discovery. You'd become celebrated."
"It's forbidden to publish it," said Peredonov angrily; "I'm not allowed to read forbidden books. And I never read them. I'm a patriot."
After lengthy lamentations in which Peredonov poured himself out, Avinovitsky concluded that someone was trying to blackmail Peredonov, and with this purpose in view was spreading rumours about him in order to frighten him and to prepare a basis for a sudden demand for money. That these rumours did not reach him, Avinovitsky explained by the fact that the blackmailer was acting skilfully upon Peredonov's immediate circle—because it was only necessary to frighten Peredonov. Avinovitsky asked:
"Whom do you suspect?"
Peredonov fell into thought. Quite by chance Grushina came into his mind, he recalled confusedly the recent conversation with her, during which he interrupted her by a threat of informing against her. The fact that it was he who had threatened to inform against Grushina became in his mind a vague idea of informing in general. Whether he was to inform against someone or whether they were to inform against him was not clear, and Peredonov had no desire to exert himself to recall the matter precisely—one thing was clear, that Grushina was an enemy. And what was worse she had seen where he hid Pisarev. He would have to hide the books somewhere else.
Peredonov said at last:
"Well, there's Grushina."
"Yes, I know, she's a first class rogue," said Avinovitsky sharply.
"She's always coming to our house," complained Peredonov. "And always nosing around. She's very grasping—she takes all she can get. It's possible that she wants money from me in order to keep her from reporting that I once had Pisarev. Or perhaps she wants to marry me. But I don't want to pay her. And I have someone else I want to marry—let her inform against me—I'm not guilty. Only it's unpleasant to me to have this gossip as it might prevent my appointment."
"She's a well-known charlatan," said the District Attorney. "She wanted to take up fortune-telling by cards here, and to get money out of fools. But I asked the police to stop it. At that time they were sensible and did what I told them."
"Even now she tells fortunes," said Peredonov. "She spread out the cards for me and she always saw a long journey and an official letter for me."
"She knows what to say to everybody. Just wait, she'll set a trap for you and then she'll try and extort money from you. Then you come to me and I'll give her a hundred of the hottest lashes," said Avinovitsky, using his favourite expression.
This expression was not to be taken literally, it merely meant an ordinary rebuke.
Thus Avinovitsky promised his protection to Peredonov, but Peredonov left him agitated by vague fears inspired by Avinovitsky's loud, stern speeches.
In this manner Peredonov made a single visit every day before dinner—he could not manage more than one because everywhere he had to make circumstantial explanations. In the evening, as was his custom, he went to play billiards.
As before, Vershina enticed him in by her witching invitations, as before Routilov praised his sisters to him. At home Varvara used her persuasive powers to make him marry her sooner—but he came to no resolution. He indeed thought sometimes that to marry Varvara would be the best thing he could do—but suppose the Princess should deceive him? He would become the laughing-stock of the town, and this possibility made him pause.
The pursuit of him by would-be brides, the envy of his comrades, more often the product of his imagination than an actual fact, all sorts of suspected snares—all this made his life wearisome and unhappy, like the weather which for several successive days had been bleak, and often resolved itself into slow and scant, but cold and prolonged rains. Peredonov felt that life was becoming a detestable thing—but he thought that he would soon become an inspector, and then everything would take a turn for the better.
[1]Alexander Herzen's periodical, the "Kolokol" (The Bell), was suppressed in 1863 for its sympathy with the Poles.
[1]Alexander Herzen's periodical, the "Kolokol" (The Bell), was suppressed in 1863 for its sympathy with the Poles.
On Thursday, Peredonov went to see the Marshal of the Nobility.
The Marshal's house reminded one of a palatial cottage in Pavlovsk or in Tsarskoye Selo, with full conveniences even for winter residence. Though there was no blatant display of luxury, the newness of many articles seemed unnecessarily pretentious.
Aleksandr Mikhailovitch Veriga received Peredonov in his study. He pretended to hurry forward to greet his guest, and gave the impression that it was only his extreme busyness that kept him from meeting Peredonov earlier.
Veriga held himself extraordinarily erect even for a retired cavalry officer. It was whispered that he wore corsets. His clean-shaven face was a uniform red, as if it were painted. His head was shorn by the closest-cutting clippers—a convenient method of minimising his bald patch. His eyes were grey, affable, but cold. In his manner he was extremely amiable to everyone, but his views were decided and severe. A fine military discipline was apparent in all his movements, and there was a hint in his habits of the future Governor.
Peredonov began to explain his business to him across a carved oak table:
"All sorts of rumours are being spread about me and, as a gentleman,[1]I turn to you. All sorts of nonsense is being said about me, your Excellency, none of which is true."
"I haven't heard anything," replied Veriga, smiling amiably and expectantly, and fixing his attentive grey eyes on Peredonov.
Peredonov looked fixedly in one corner of the room and said:
"I never was a Socialist. But if it sometimes happened that I said something I oughtn't to say, you must remember that one is apt to be a little careless in one's young days. But I've given up thinking of such things altogether."
"So you were quite a Liberal?" asked Veriga with an amiable smile. "You wanted a Constitution, isn't that so? But we all wanted a Constitution when we were young. Have one of these."
Veriga pushed a box of cigars towards Peredonov who was afraid to take one and refused. Veriga lighted his own.
"Of course, your Excellency," admitted Peredonov, "in the University I, and only I, wanted a different kind of Constitution from the others."
"And what sort precisely?" asked Veriga with a shade of approaching displeasure in his voice.
"What I wanted was a Constitution without a Parliament," explained Peredonov, "because in a Parliament they only wrangle."
Veriga's eyes lit up with quiet amusement.
"A Constitution without a Parliament!" he said reflectively. "Do you think it's practical?"
"But even that was a long time ago," said Peredonov. "Now I want nothing of the sort."
And he looked hopefully at Veriga.
Veriga blew a thin wisp of smoke from his lips, was silent a moment, and then said slowly:
"Well, you're a schoolmaster. And my duties in the district have something to do with the schools. Now, in your opinion, to what kind of school would you give preference: to the Parish Church Schools or to the so-called secularised District Schools?"
Veriga knocked the ash from his cigar and fixed an amiable but very attentive gaze on Peredonov. Peredonov frowned, looked into the corners and said:
"The District Schools ought to be reorganised."
"Reorganised," repeated Veriga in an indefinite tone. "So-o."
And he fixed his eyes on the smouldering cigar, as if he were awaiting a long explanation.
"The Instructors there are Nihilists," said Peredonov. "The Instructresses don't believe in God. They stand in church and blow their noses."
Veriga glanced quickly at Peredonov and said with a smile:
"But that's necessary sometimes, you know."
"Yes, but the one I mean blows her nose like a horn, so that the boys in the choir laugh," growled Peredonov. "She does it on purpose. That's the sort Skobotchkina is."
"Yes, that is unpleasant," said Veriga, "but in Skobotchkina's case it's due to a bad bringing up. She's a girl altogether without manners, but an enthusiastic schoolmistress. In any case it's not nice: she must be told about it."
"And she walks about in a red shirt. And sometimes she even walks barefoot in a sarafan. She practises at the high-jumps with the little boys. It's too free in the schools," went on Peredonov. "There's no discipline of any kind. They actually don't want to chastise the pupils. The muzhiks' children shouldn't be treated in the same way as the children of gentlemen—they have to be birched."
Veriga looked calmly at Peredonov, then, as if feeling uneasy at Peredonov's untactful remarks, he lowered his eyes, and said in a cold, almost gubernatorial tone:
"I must say that I have noticed many good qualities in pupils from District Schools. Undoubtedly, in the great majority of cases, they do their work very conscientiously. Of course, as everywhere, the children are sometimes guilty of offences. In consequence of a bad upbringing and of a poor environment, these offences can take a coarse form, all the more since among the Russian village population the general feelings of duty, of honour and respect of private ownership are little developed. The school should concern itself with these offences attentively and sternly. When all methods of persuasion are exhausted and if the offence is a severe one, then of course it should follow that in order not to ruin the boy extreme measures must be taken. Besides, this should apply to all children, even to those of gentlemen. In general, however, I agree with you that in schools of this kind training is not satisfactorily organised. Madame Shteven,[2]in her extremely interesting book—have you read it?"
"No, your Excellency," said Peredonov in confusion, "I never have the time. There's so much work in school. But I will read it."
"Well, that's not altogether necessary," said Veriga with a smile, as if he were forbidding Peredonov's reading it. "Yes, Madame Shteven recounts with distress that two of her pupils, young men of seventeen, were sentenced to be birched by the District Court. You see, they were proud young fellows—let me add that we all suffered while they suffered the execution of the sentence—this penalty was afterwards abolished. And, let me say that if I were in Madame Shteven's place I would like to let all Russia know that this has happened: because, just imagine, they were sentenced for stealing apples. Observe, for stealing! And what's more she writes that they were her very best pupils. Yet they stole the apples! Fine bringing up! It must frankly be admitted that we don't respect the rights of ownership."
Veriga rose from his place in agitation, made two steps forward, but controlled himself and immediately sat down again.
"Now when I am an inspector of National Schools I shall do things differently," said Peredonov.
"Have you that position in prospect?" asked Veriga.
"Yes, Princess Volchanskaya has promised me."
Veriga assumed an expression of pleasure.
"I shall be very glad to congratulate you. I have no doubt that in your hands things will be improved."
"But, your Excellency, in the town they're spreading all sorts of nonsense about me—you can't tell, someone in the district may inform against me and hinder my appointment, and I haven't done anything."
"Whom do you suspect in the spreading of these false rumours?" asked Veriga.
Peredonov mumbled in confusion:
"Who should I suspect? I don't know, but they do gossip about me. And I have come to you because they might injure my position."
Veriga reflected that he would not know who was spreading the gossip, because he was not yet Governor.
He again assumed his role of Marshal, and made a speech which Peredonov listened to with fear and depression:
"I appreciate the confidence which you have shown me in calling upon my"—(Veriga wanted to say "patronage" but refrained)—"intervention between you and the society in which, according to your information, these detrimental rumours about you are being disseminated. These rumours have not yet reached me, and you may depend upon it that the calumnies, which are being spread in connection with you, dare not venture to rise from the low places of the town public, and, in other words, they will not go beyond the secret darkness in which they are confined. But it is very pleasant to me that you, who hold your official post by appointment, at the same time value so highly the importance of public opinion and the dignity of the position you occupy as a trainer of youth, one of those to whose enlightening solitude we, the parents, entrust our most priceless inheritance, namely, our children, the heirs of our name and of our labours. As an official you have your chief in the person of your honoured Head-Master, but as a member of society and as a gentleman you have always the privilege of counting on ... the co-operation of the Marshal of Nobility in questions concerning your honour and your dignity as a man and a gentleman."
As he continued to speak, Veriga rose and, pressing heavily on the edge of the table with the fingers of his right hand, looked at Peredonov with that impersonally affable and attentive expression with which an orator looks at a crowd when pronouncing benevolent official speeches. Peredonov rose also, and crossing his hands on his stomach, looked morosely at the rug under the Marshals feet. Veriga went on:
"I am glad that you turned to me, because in our time it is especially useful to members of the official classes always and everywhere to remember above all things that they are gentlemen and to value their membership of this class—not only in the matter of privileges but also in responsibilities and in their dignity as gentlemen. Gentlemen, in Russia, as you know, are pre-eminently of the Civil Service. Strictly speaking, all governmental positions, except the very lowest, it goes without saying, should be found only in gentlemen's hands. The presence of commoners in the Government service constitutes of course one of the causes of undesirable occurrences such as that which has disturbed your tranquillity. Intrigue and calumny, these are the weapons of people of lower breed, not brought up in fine gentlemanly traditions. But I hope that public opinion will make itself heard clearly and loudly on your behalf, and in this connection you can fully count on my co-operation."
"I thank your Excellency most humbly," said Peredonov, "and I am glad that I can count on you."
Veriga smiled amiably and did not sit down, giving Peredonov to understand that the interview was closed. As he finished his speech he suddenly realised that what he had said was out of place and that Peredonov was nothing but a timorous place-seeker, knocking at doors in his search for patronage.
As the footman in the hall helped him on with his coat he heard the sounds of a piano in a distant room. Peredonov thought that in this house lived people of great self-esteem whose manner of life was really seigneurial. "He has a Governorship in view," thought Peredonov with a feeling of respectful and envious astonishment.
On the stairs he met two of the Marshal's boys returning from a walk with their tutor. Peredonov looked at them with morose curiosity.
"How clean they are!" he thought. "There's not a speck of dirt even in their ears. How alive they are, and they're trained to hold themselves straight as a taut fiddle-string. And they're never even whipped, if you please," thought Peredonov.
And he looked angrily after them as they ran up the stairs, chattering gaily. It astonished Peredonov that the tutor treated them as equals—he did not frown at them nor did he scold them.
When Peredonov returned home he found Varvara in the drawing-room with a book in her hands, which was a rare occurrence. Varvara was reading a cookery book, the only one she had, and which she sometimes looked into. The book was old, ragged and had black binding. The binding caught Peredonov's eye, and it depressed him.
"What are you reading, Varvara?" he asked angrily.
"What? Can't you see? A cookery book," replied Varvara. "I haven't time to read nonsense."
"Why a cookery book?" asked Peredonov in fright.
"What do you mean, why? I want to find some new dishes for you—you're always grumbling about the food," said Varvara with a sort of sarcastic self-satisfaction.
"I won't eat from a black book," announced Peredonov decisively, and quickly tore the book from Varvara's hands and took it into the bedroom.
"A black book! The idea of preparing dinners from it!" The thought filled him with fear. It had come to that: he was to be ruined openly with black magic! "I must destroy this awful book," he thought, and paid no attention to Varvara's grumbling.
On Friday Peredonov went to see the President of the District Landlords' Board.
Everything in this house pointed to a love of simplicity and good living, and to the fact that the occupants had public interest at heart. Many objects of good furniture, reminding one of village life, were about, among other things a chair with a back made of a harness arch and hand supports resembling axe handles; an inkwell shaped like a horse-shoe; and an ash-pan that resembled a peasant's shoe. Several corn measures containing samples of corn were lying about in the parlour—on the window-sills, on the tables, on the floor, while here and there were pieces of "hungry" bread[3]—dirty lumps that resembled peat. In the drawing-room were designs and models of agricultural machines. Several cases of books on rural economy and school matters encumbered the study. The table was covered with papers, printed forms, paste-board boxes containing cards of various sizes. There was much dust, and not a single picture.
The master of the house, Ivan Stepanovitch Kirillov, was very anxious, on the one hand, to be amiable—in the European fashion—on the other not to detract from his own dignity as a district landowner. He was a strange contradiction, as if welded from two halves. It was evident from all his surroundings that he did a great deal of work with intelligence. But to look at him you might imagine that his work in the district was only a temporary distraction and that his real cares were somewhere before him. This was evident in his eyes, which now and then stared into the distance—eyes alert yet inanimate in their tinny gleam. It was as if someone had taken out his live soul and put it into a long box, and had replaced it with a skilful, bustling machine.
He was of low stature, thin, youngish—so youngish and ruddy that now and then he looked like a boy who had glued on a false beard and had assumed grown-up manners with complete success. His movements were quick but precise; when he greeted anyone he bowed elaborately, and he seemed to glide on the soles of his fancy boots. One's impulse was to call his clothes a "small costume": he wore a grey jacket, a shirt of unstarched batiste with turned-down collar, a blue cord tie, narrow trousers and grey socks. And his always courteous conversation was also ambiguous: he would speak quite gravely and then suddenly an ingenuous smile, like a child's, would appear, and then next moment he would be grave again.
His wife, a quiet, sedate woman, who seemed older than her husband, came into the study a number of times while Peredonov was there, and each time she asked her husband for some detailed information about the affairs of the district.
Their household in town was always confused—there were always visitors on business and constant teas. Hardly had Peredonov seated himself when they brought him a glass of lukewarm tea and some rolls on a plate.
Before Peredonov arrived there was already a visitor there. Peredonov knew him—but then who is not known to everyone in our town? Everyone knows everyone else, but some have quarrelled and broken off the acquaintance.
This was the District physician, Georgiy Semenovitch Trepetov, a little man—even smaller than Kirillov—with a pimply, insignificant, sharp-featured face. He wore blue spectacles, and he always looked under or to the side of them, as if it were an effort to look at his companion. He was unusually upright, and never gave a single kopeck for anyone else's benefit. He detested deeply everyone who was a government official: he would go so far as to shake hands at meeting but stubbornly refrained from conversation. For this he was reputed a shining light—like Kirillov—although he knew very little and was a poor physician. He was all the time getting ready to lead the simple life, and with this intention he looked on at the muzhiks when they blew their noses and scratched the back of their heads and wiped their mouths with the back of their hands; when he was alone he sometimes imitated them, but he always put off his simplification till next summer.
Peredonov here also repeated his usual complaints against the town gossip, such as he had made during the last few days, and against the envious people who wanted to hinder his obtaining an inspector's position. At the beginning Kirillov felt rather flattered by this attention. He exclaimed:
"Now you can see what goes on in provincial towns. I always said that the one deliverance for thinking people is to join hands—and I'm glad that you've come to the same conclusion."
Trepetov snorted angrily, as if affronted. Kirillov looked at him timorously. Trepetov said with contempt:
"Thinking people!" and then he snorted again.
After a short silence he began again in his thin, indignant voice:
"I don't know how thinking people can serve a musty classicism."
Kirillov said irresolutely:
"But, Georgiy Semenovitch, you never realise that a man does not always choose his own profession."
Trepetov snorted contemptuously, which finally settled the amiable Kirillov, and became immersed in a deep silence.
Kirillov turned to Peredonov when he heard that he was talking of an inspector's position. Kirillov looked worried. He imagined that Peredonov wanted to be an inspector in our district.
In the District Council there had matured a project to establish the position of their Inspector of schools, who was to be chosen by the Council, the appointment to be approved by the Educational Commission.
Then, the Inspector Bogdanov, who had charge of the schools of three districts, would be transferred to one of the neighbouring towns, and the schools of our district would be turned over to the new Inspector. For this position the members of the Council had in view an instructor in a pedagogical seminary in the neighbouring town, Safata.
"I have patrons," said Peredonov, "but I'm afraid that the Head-Master here will harm my chances—yes, and other people too. All sorts of nonsense is being spread about me. So that in case of any inquiries concerning me, I want to say now that all this talk is rubbish. Don't you believe any of it."
Kirillov replied alertly:
"I have no time, Ardalyon Borisitch, to give attention to all the town rumours and gossip; I'm up to my neck in work. If my wife didn't help me, I don't know what I should do. But I am fully convinced that all that is being said about you—though I assure you I haven't heard anything—is mere gossip. But the position you have in view doesn't depend on me alone."
"They might ask you about it," said Peredonov.
Kirillov looked at him in astonishment, and said:
"Of course they will. But the real point at issue is that we have in view ..."
At this moment Kirillov's wife appeared at the door and said:
"Stepan Ivanitch, just a moment."
The husband went to her. She whispered to him in a worried way:
"I think you'd better not tell this creature that we have Krasilnikov in view. I mistrust this creature—he will try to spoil Krasilnikov's chances."
"You think so?" whispered Kirillov. "Yes, yes, you may be right. It's an unpleasant business."
He clutched his head.
His wife looked at him with professional sympathy and said:
"It is better to tell him nothing at all about it—as if there were no vacancy."
"Yes, yes, you're right," whispered Kirillov. "But I must run along—it's discourteous."
He ran back into his study and began to converse amiably with Peredonov.
"So you will—if ..." began Peredonov.
"Please rest assured. Please rest assured. I'll have it in view," said Kirillov quickly. "We haven't yet fully decided this question."
Peredonov did not understand to what question Kirillov referred, and he felt oppressed and apprehensive. Kirillov went on:
"We are establishing a school-map. We've had experts from Peterburg. They've worked at it the whole summer. It cost us nine hundred roubles. We're preparing now for the District meeting. It's a remarkably efficient plan—all distances have been considered and all school points have been mapped out."
And Kirillov explained the school-map minutely and at length, that is, the apportioning the District into several small divisions, with a school in each, so that every village would have its school close at hand. Peredonov understood nothing of this and became entangled with his dull thoughts in the wordy strands of the net which Kirillov handled so deftly and quickly.
At last he took his leave, hopelessly oppressed. In this house, he thought, they did not want to understand him or even to listen to what he had to say. The host babbled something unintelligible. Trepetov snorted angrily for some reason or other. The hostess came in ungraciously and walked out again—strange people lived in this house, thought Peredonov. A lost day!
[1]Dvoryaninactually means a nobleman, but certain professions—that of a schoolmaster, for instance—entitle a man to the rank of "dvoryanin." We have used the English word "gentleman," to avoid confusing the reader.
[1]Dvoryaninactually means a nobleman, but certain professions—that of a schoolmaster, for instance—entitle a man to the rank of "dvoryanin." We have used the English word "gentleman," to avoid confusing the reader.
[2]Madame Shteven gave all her energy to the education of peasants, but her efforts were ultimately curtailed by the authorities.
[2]Madame Shteven gave all her energy to the education of peasants, but her efforts were ultimately curtailed by the authorities.
[3]Very inferior bread used during the famine.
[3]Very inferior bread used during the famine.
On Saturday Peredonov prepared to visit the Commissioner of Police. "Though he is not so big a bird as the Marshal of the Nobility," thought Peredonov, "he might do me greater harm than anyone else. On the other hand he might help me a great deal with the authorities. The police are, after all, very important."
Peredonov took from its box his official cap with its badge. He decided that henceforth he would wear no other hat. It was all very well for the Head-Master to wear any hat he liked—he stood well with the authorities, but Peredonov was still seeking his inspector's position; it was not enough for him to depend upon patrons, he must do something himself to show his mettle. Already, several days earlier, before he had begun to go about among the authorities, he had thought of this, but somehow his hat only came to his hand. Now Peredonov arranged things differently: he threw his hat on top of the stove—to make certain that he would not pick it up by accident.
Varvara was not at home; Klavdia was washing the floors. Peredonov went into the kitchen to wash his hands. He saw on the table there a roll of blue paper from which a few raisins had fallen. This was a pound of raisins bought for the tea-cake to be baked at home. Peredonov began to eat the raisins as they were, unwashed and unstoned. He quickly and avidly ate the whole pound as he stood at the table, keeping one eye on the door so that Klavdia should not surprise him. Then he carefully folded up the thick, blue paper and carried it into the front room under his coat and there put it in the pocket of his overcoat so that he could throw it away in the street and thus get rid of all traces of it.
He walked out. Soon Klavdia went to get the raisins, and then began to hunt for them unsuccessfully in a frightened way. Varvara returned and discovered the loss of the raisins and began to abuse Klavdia: she was certain that Klavdia had eaten them.
It was quiet in the streets with a slight breeze. There was only an occasional cloud. The pools were drying up. There was a pale glow in the sky. But Peredonov's soul was heavily oppressed.
On the way he went into the tailor's in order to hurry along the new uniform he had ordered three days ago.
As he walked past the church he took his hat off and crossed himself three times elaborately and sweepingly, so that everyone should see how the future inspector walked past the church. He was not accustomed to do it before, but now he had to be on the look-out. It was possible that some spy was walking stealthily behind or was hiding around a corner or behind a tree and was watching him.
The Commissioner of Police lived in a remote street of the town. In the gates, which were flung wide open, Peredonov met a police constable—a meeting which now always made Peredonov feel dejected. There were several muzhiks visible in the courtyard, but not the kind one meets everywhere—these were an unusually orderly and quiet sort. The courtyard was dirty. Carts stood about covered with matting.
In the dark corridor Peredonov met another police constable, a small, meagre man of capable yet depressed appearance. He stood motionless and held under his arm a book in black leather binding. A ragged, barefoot girl ran out from a side door and helped Peredonov off with his coat; as she led him into the drawing-room, she said:
"Please come in, Semyon Grigoryevitch will be here soon."
The drawing-room ceiling was low and this oppressed Peredonov. The furniture was huddled against the wall. Rope-mats lay on the floor. To the right and to the left noises and whisperings could be heard behind the walls. Pale women and scrofulous boys looked out from the doors, all with avid glistening eyes. Among the whisperings certain questions and answers spoken in a louder tone could be heard:
"I brought ..."
"Where shall I take this?"
"Where do you want this put?"
"I've brought it from Ermoshkin, Sidor Petrovitch."
The Commissioner soon appeared. He was buttoning up his uniform and smiling amiably.
"Pardon me for keeping you waiting," he said, as he pressed Peredonov's hand in both his huge grasping hands. "I've had many business callers. Our work is such that it won't bear delay."
Semyon Grigoryevitch Minchukov a tall, robust, black-haired man, with a thinness of hair on the top of his scalp, stooped slightly. His hands hung down and his fingers were like rakes. He often smiled in such a way as to suggest that he had just eaten something that was forbidden but very pleasant and was now licking his lips. His lips were bright red, thick; his nose fleshy; his face was eager, zealous but stupid.
Peredonov was perturbed by everything he saw and heard in this place. He mumbled incoherent words and as he sat on his chair he tried to hold his cap in such a way that the Commissioner should see the badge. Minchukov sat opposite him on the other side of the table, very erect, and kept his amiable smile, while his rake-like fingers quietly moved on his knees, opening and shutting.
"They're saying I don't know what about me," said Peredonov. "Things that never happened. I can do some informing myself, but I don't want to. I'm nothing of what they say, but I know whattheyare. Behind your back they spread all sorts of scandal and then laugh in your face. You must admit that, in my position, this is very annoying. I have patronage, but these people go about throwing mud at me. All their following me about is useless. They only waste time and annoy me. Wherever you go, the whole town knows about it. So I hope that if anything happens you'll support me."
"Of course, of course! with the greatest pleasure! But how?" asked Minchukov, gesticulating with his large hands. "Still the police ought to know whether you suspect anyone."
"Of course, it's really nothing to me," said Peredonov angrily. "Let them chatter if they like. But they might injure my position. They're cunning. You don't notice that they all chatter, like Routilov, for instance. How do you know that he's not plotting to blow up the Treasury? It's one way of shifting the blame."
Minchukov at first thought that Peredonov was drunk and talking nonsense. Then as he listened further he imagined that Peredonov was complaining of someone who was spreading calumnies about him and that he had come to ask Minchukov to take certain measures.
"They're young people," continued Peredonov, thinking of Volodin, "and have a very good opinion of themselves. They're plotting against other people and are dishonest themselves. Young people, as everyone knows, are liable to temptation. Some of them are even in the police service, and they too are busybodies."
For a long time he talked about young people but for some reason or other did not want to name Volodin. At any rate, he wanted Minchukov to understand that certain young police officials were not free from his suspicions. Minchukov concluded that Peredonov was hinting at two young officials in the police bureau—two very young men who were rather frivolous and were always running after girls. Peredonov's confusion and manifest nervousness infected Minchukov.
"I'll look into the matter," he said with some anxiety. For a moment he was lost in thought and then again began to smile. "I have two quite young officials—their mothers' milk isn't dry on their lips. Believe me, one of them is still put in the corner by his mother, honest to God!"
Peredonov broke into a cackling laugh.
In the meantime Varvara had gone to Grushina's house where she learned an astonishing piece of news.
"Varvara Dmitrievna darling," said Grushina rapidly, before Varvara had time to cross the threshold, "I have a piece of news for you that will make you stare."
"What is it?" asked Varvara.
"Just think what low people there are in this world! What tricks they'll play to reach their purpose!"
"What is the matter?"
"Just wait and I'll tell you."
But first of all the cunning Grushina gave Varvara coffee; then chased her children out into the street, which made the elder of her girls unwilling to go.
"Ah, you little brat!" Grushina shouted at her.
"You're a brat yourself!" answered the little girl and stamped her foot at her mother.
Grushina caught the child by the hair, pushed her out the door and slammed it....
"The little beast!" she complained to Varvara. "These children are a great worry. I'm alone with them and I never get any peace. If only they had their father!"
"Why don't you marry again, then they'd have a father," said Varvara.
"You never can tell how a man'll turn out, Varvara Dmitrievna darling. He might treat them badly."
In the meantime the little girl ran back from the street and threw into the window a handful of sand which fell on to her mother's head and dress. Grushina put her head out of the window and shouted:
"Wait till I catch you, you little devil, and see what you'll get!"
"You're a devil yourself, you silly fool!" shouted the little girl from the street, jumping on one foot and clenching her dirty little fist at her mother.
"You just wait!" shouted Grushina.
And she shut the window. Then she sat down calmly as if nothing had happened and began to talk:
"I have a piece of news for you, but I don't know if I ought to tell you. But don't worry, Varvara Dmitrievna darling, they won't succeed."
"Well, what is it?" asked Varvara in affright, and the saucer of coffee trembled in her hand.
"You know that a young student by the name of Pilnikov has just entered the school and been put straight into the fifth form as if he'd come from Rouban, for his aunt has bought an estate in our district."
"Yes, I know," said Varvara, "I saw him when he came with his aunt. Such a pretty boy, almost like a girl, and always blushing."
"But, dearest, why shouldn't he look like a girl? He is a girl dressed up!"
"What do you mean!" exclaimed Varvara.
"They've thought of it on purpose to catch Ardalyon Borisitch," said Grushina quickly with many gesticulations, very happy that she had such important news to tell. "You see this girl has a first cousin, a boy, an orphan, who went to school at Rouban. And this girl's mother took him away from Rouban and used his papers to send the girl here. And you will notice that they have put him in a house where there are no other boys. He's there alone, so that the whole matter, they thought, would be kept secret."
"And how did you find out?" asked Varvara incredulously.
"Varvara darling, news gets about quickly. It was suspicious at once: all the other boys are like boys, but this one is so quiet and walks about as if he had just been dipped in the water. To look at he's a fine-looking fellow, red-cheeked and chesty, but his companions notice that he's very modest—they tell him a word and he blushes at once. They tease him for being a girl. They do it for a lark and don't realise that it's the truth. And just think how shrewd they've been—why, even the landlady doesn't know anything."
"How did you find out?" repeated Varvara.
"But, Varvara darling, what is there that I don't know! I know everyone in the district. Why everyone knows that they have a boy at home the same age as this one. Why didn't they send them to school together? They say that he was ill last summer and that he was to spend a year recuperating and then go back to school. But that's all nonsense. The real schoolboy is at home. And then everyone knows that they had a girl and they say that she was married and went off to the Caucasus. But that's another lie—she didn't go away. She's living here disguised as a boy."
"But what's the object of it?" asked Varvara.
"What do you mean, 'What's the object?'" said Grushina animatedly. "To get hold of one of the instructors—there are plenty of them bachelors. Or perhaps someone else. Disguised as a boy, she could go to men's apartments, and there isn't much she couldn't do."
"You say she's a pretty girl?" said Varvara in apprehensive tones.
"Rather! She's a fabulous beauty!" said Grushina. "She may be a little constrained now, but just wait, she'll get used to things and show her true colours. She'll turn plenty of heads in the town. And just think how shrewd they've been: as soon as I found out about this I tried to meet his landlady, or perhaps I should say her landlady."
"It's a topsy-turvy affair. Pah! God help us!" said Varvara.
"I went to Vespers at the parish church on St. Pantelemon's day. She's very pious. 'Olga Vassilyevna,' I say to her, 'why do you keep only one student in your house now?' 'It seems to me,' I say to her, 'that one is not enough for you.' And she says, 'Why should I have any more? They're a great trouble.' And so I say, 'Why, in past years you used to have two or three.' And then she says—just imagine, Varvara darling—'They stipulated that Sashenka alone should live in my house. They are well-to-do people,' she says to me, 'and they pay me a little more, as if they were afraid that the other boys would do him harm.' Now what do you think of that?"
"Aren't they sly blighters," said Varvara indignantly. "Well, did you tell her that he was a wench?"
"I said to her: 'Olga Vassilyevna, are you sure they haven't foisted a girl upon you instead of a boy?'"
"Well, and what did she say?"
"She thought at first that I was joking, and she laughs. Then I say to her more seriously, 'My dear Olga Vassilyevna,' I say, 'd'you know they say that this is a girl?' But she wouldn't believe me. 'Nonsense,' she says, 'who put that into your head? I'm not blind.'"
This tale left Varvara dumbfounded. She believed the whole story just as she heard it, and she believed that an assault from yet another side was being prepared for her intended husband. She must somehow have the mask torn off this disguised girl as quickly as possible. For a long time they deliberated as to how this was to be done, but so far they could not think of any way.
When Varvara got home her annoyance was further increased by the disappearance of the raisins.
When Peredonov returned Varvara quickly and agitatedly told him that Klavdia had hidden away somewhere the pound of raisins and would not admit it.
"And what is more," said Varvara, "she suggests that they've been eaten by the master. She says that you were in the kitchen for some reason or other when she was washing the floors and that you stopped there for a long time."
"I didn't stop there at all long," said Peredonov glumly, "I only washed my hands there and I didn't see any raisins."
"Klavdiushka! Klavdiushka!" shouted Varvara, "Master says he didn't even see the raisins—that means you must have hidden them somewhere."
Klavdia showed her reddened, tear-stained face from the kitchen.
"I didn't take your raisins!" she shouted in a tear-choked voice. "I'll pay for them, but I didn't take them."
"You'll pay for them all right," shouted Varvara angrily. "I'm not obliged to feed you on raisins."
Peredonov burst out laughing and shouted:
"Diushka's got away with a whole pound of raisins!"
"Heartless wretches!" shouted Klavdia, and slammed the door.
After dinner Varvara could not help telling Peredonov what she had heard about Pilnikov. She did not stop to reflect whether this would help her or do her harm, or how Peredonov would act—she spoke simply from malice.
Peredonov tried to recall Pilnikov to his mind, but somehow he could not clearly visualise him. Until now, he had given little attention to this new pupil, and detested him for his prettiness and cleanness, and because he conducted himself so quietly, worked well, and was the youngest of the students in the fifth form. But now Varvara's story aroused in him a mischievous curiosity. Immodest thoughts slowly stirred in his obscure mind.
"I must go to Vespers," he thought, "and take a look at this disguised girl."
Suddenly Klavdia came in rejoicing and threw on the table a piece of crumpled blue paper and exclaimed:
"There! You blamed me for taking the raisins, but what's this? As if I needed your raisins."
Peredonov guessed what was the matter; he had forgotten to throw the paper bag away in the street and now Klavdia had found it in his overcoat pocket.
"Oh! The devil!" he exclaimed.
"What is it? Where did you get it?" cried Varvara.
"I found it in Ardalyon Borisitch's pocket," said Klavdia triumphantly. "He ate them himself and I'm blamed for it. Everyone knows that Ardalyon Borisitch likes sweet things. But why should it be put on others when ..."
"Don't go so fast," said Peredonov, "you're telling lies. You put it there yourself. I didn't touch them."
"Why should I do that, God forgive you!" said Klavdia, nonplussed.
"How did you dare to touch other people's pockets!" shouted Varvara. "Are you looking for money?"
"I don't touch other people's pockets," answered Klavdia angrily, "I took the coat down to brush it. It was covered with mud."
"But why did you put your hand in the pocket?"
"It fell out of the pocket by itself," said Klavdia, defending herself.
"You're lying, Diushka," said Peredonov.
"I'm not a 'diushka'—what sneerers you are!" shouted Klavdia. "The devil take you. I'll pay for those raisins and you can choke on them—you've gorged on them yourself and now I must pay for them. Yes, I'll pay for them—you've no conscience, you've no shame, and yet you call yourself gentry!"
Klavdia went into the kitchen crying and abusing them.
Peredonov suddenly began to laugh and said:
"She's very touchy, isn't she?"
"Yes, let her pay for them," said Varvara. "If you let them, they'll eat anything, these ravenous devils."
And for a long time afterwards they tormented Klavdia with having eaten a pound of raisins. They deducted the price of the raisins from her wages and told the story to everyone who came to the house.
The cat, as if attracted by this uproar, had left the kitchen, sidling along the walls, sat down near Peredonov and looked at him with its avid, evil eyes. Peredonov bent down to catch the animal, which snarled savagely, scratched Peredonov's hand and ran and hid behind the sideboard. It peeped out from there and its narrow green eyes gleamed.
"It might be a were-wolf!" thought Peredonov in fear.
In the meantime Varvara, still thinking about Pilnikov, said:
"Why do you spend all your evenings playing billiards? You might occasionally drop in at the students' lodgings. They know that the instructors rarely come to see them and that the inspector only comes once a year, so that all sorts of indecencies, card-playing and drunkenness go on. You might, for instance, call on this disguised girl. You'd better go late, about bed-time—that would be a good time to find her out and embarrass her."
Peredonov reflected a while and then burst out laughing.
"Varvara's certainly a sly rogue!" he thought, "she can teach me a thing or two."
Peredonov went to Vespers in the school chapel. There he placed himself behind the students and looked attentively to see how they behaved. It seemed to him that some of them were mischievous, talked, whispered and laughed. He noticed who they were and tried to memorise their names. There were a number of them and he reproached himself for not having brought a piece of paper and a pencil with him to write their names down. He felt depressed because the students behaved so badly and no one paid any attention to it, although the Head-Master and the inspector with their wives and children were present. As a matter of fact, the students were orderly and quiet—some of them crossed themselves absently, with their thoughts far away from the church, others prayed diligently. Only very rarely did one of them whisper to his neighbour—two or three words perhaps, without turning their heads, and the other always replied as briefly and quietly, sometimes with no more than a quick movement, a look, a shrug or a smile. But these insignificant movements, unnoticed by the form master, aroused an illusion of great disorder in Peredonov's dull, perturbed mind. Even in his tranquil moments Peredonov, like all coarse people, could not appraise small incidents: either he did not notice them at all or he exaggerated their importance. Now that he was agitated by expectations, his perceptions served him even worse, and little by little the whole reality became obscured before him by a thin smoke of detestable and evil illusions.
And after all, what were the students to Peredonov even earlier? Were they not merely an apparatus for the spreading of ink and paper by means of the pen, and for the retelling in ready-made language what had been said before in live human speech! In his whole educational career Peredonov never for a moment reflected that the students were the same human beings as grown-ups. Only bearded students with awakened inclinations towards women suddenly became in his eyes equal to himself.
After he had stood behind the boys for some time and gathered enough of depressing reflections, Peredonov moved forward toward the middle rows. There, on the very edge, to the right, stood Sasha Pilnikov; he was praying earnestly and often went down on his knees. Peredonov watched him, and it gave him pleasure to see Sasha on his knees like one chastised, and looking before him at the resplendent altar with a concerned and appealing expression on his face; with entreaty and sadness in his black eyes shaded by long intensely black eyelashes. Smooth-faced and graceful, his chest standing out broad and high as he rested there, calm and erect on his knees, as if under some sternly observing eye, he appeared at that moment to Peredonov altogether like a girl.
Peredonov now decided to go directly after Vespers to Pilnikov's rooms.
They began to leave the church. It was noticed that Peredonov no longer wore a hat but a cap with a badge. Routilov asked laughingly:
"Ardalyon Borisitch, how is that you're strolling about with your badge nowadays? That comes of having an inspectorship in view."
"Will the soldiers have to salute you now?" asked Valeria with pretended ingenuousness.
"What nonsense!" said Peredonov angrily.
"You don't understand, Valerotchka," said Darya. "Why do you say soldiers! But Ardalyon Borisitch will get a great deal more respect from his pupils now than before."
Liudmilla laughed. Peredonov made haste to take leave of them in order to get away from their sarcasms.
It was too early to go to Pilnikov and he had no desire to go home. Peredonov walked about the dark streets wondering how he could waste an hour. There were many houses, and lights shone from many windows, sometimes voices could be heard from the open windows. The church-goers walked in the streets, and gates and doors could be heard opening and shutting. All around lived people, strange and hostile to Peredonov, and it was possible that at this very moment some of them were devising evil against him. Perhaps someone was wondering why he walked alone at this late hour and where he was going. It seemed to Peredonov that someone was following him stealthily. He began to feel depressed. He walked on hurriedly and aimlessly.
He thought that every house here had its dead. And that all who lived in the old houses fifty years ago were now dead. Some of the dead he still remembered.
When a man dies his house should be burnt afterwards, thought Peredonov dejectedly, because it makes one feel horribly.
Olga Vassilyevna Kokovkina, with whom Sasha Pilnikov lived, was a paymaster's widow. Her husband had left her a pension and a small house, which was sufficiently large to accommodate two or three lodgers, but she gave preference to students. It so happened that the quietest boys were always placed at her house, those who studied diligently and completed their courses. At other students' lodgings there were a considerable number of boys who went from one school to another and always left their studies unfinished.
Olga Vassilyevna, a lean, tall and erect old woman with a good-natured face, to which, however, she tried to give a stern expression; and Sasha Pilnikov, a well-fed youngster, carefully trained by his aunt, sat at the supper table. That evening it was Sasha's turn to supply the jam, which he had bought in the village, and therefore he felt as if he were the host and ceremoniously attended to Olga Vassilyevna, and his black eyes shone brightly. A ring at the door was heard—and a moment afterwards Peredonov appeared in the dining-room. Kokovkina was astonished at such a late visit.
"I've come to take a look at our pupil," he said, "and to see how he lives."
Kokovkina asked Peredonov to take some refreshment, but he refused. He wanted them to finish their supper, so that he could be alone with his pupil. They finished their supper and went into Sasha's room, but Kokovkina did not leave them and talked incessantly. Peredonov looked morosely at Sasha, who was timidly silent.
"Nothing will come of this visit," thought Peredonov with annoyance.
The maid-servant for some reason or other called out for Kokovkina. Sasha looked dejectedly after her. His eyes grew dull, they were covered by his eyelashes—and it seemed that these eyelashes, which were very long, threw a shadow on his smooth and suddenly pallid face. He felt uneasy in the presence of this morose man. Peredonov sat down beside him, put his arm awkwardly around him and without altering the immobile expression on his face asked:
"Well, Sashenka, has the little girl said her prayers yet?"
Sasha, shamefaced and frightened, looked at Peredonov and was silent.
"Well? Eh?" asked Peredonov.
"Yes," said Sasha at last.
"What red cheeks you've got," said Peredonov. "Well—a—you are a little girl? Yes? A girl, you rogue!"
"No, I'm not a girl," said Sasha, and suddenly angry at his own timidity, he asked in a shrill voice, "How am I like a girl? That's the fault of your students who try to tease me, because I don't say nasty words; I'm not used to saying them. Why should I say them?"
"Will Mamma punish you?" asked Peredonov.
"I have no mother," said Sasha. "My mother died long ago. I have only an aunt."
"Well then, will Aunt punish you?"
"Of course she'll punish me if I use nasty words. It isn't nice, is it?"
"And how will your aunt know?"
"I don't like it myself," said Sasha quietly. "And there are several ways Aunt may find out. I might give myself away."
"And which of your companions say nasty words?" asked Peredonov.
Sasha again blushed and was silent.
"Well, go on," insisted Peredonov. "You've got to tell me. You mustn't conceal things."
"No one says them," said Sasha in confusion.
"But you yourself just complained."