I felt unutterably confused on meeting Mme. M. at the rehearsal. I kept

feeling that she would at once read in my eyes all the reflections, the

doubts, the surmises, that had arisen in my mind since the previous day.

I fancied, too, that I was, as it were, to blame in regard to her, for

having come upon her tears the day before and hindered her grieving, so

that she could hardly help looking at me askance, as an unpleasant

witness and unforgiven sharer of her secret. But, thank goodness, it

went off without any great trouble; I was simply not noticed. I think

she had no thoughts to spare for me or for the rehearsal; she was

absent-minded, sad and gloomily thoughtful; it was evident that she was

worried by some great anxiety. As soon as my part was over I ran away to

change my clothes, and ten minutes later came out on the verandah into

the garden. Almost at the same time Mme. M. came out by another door,

and immediately afterwards coming towards us appeared her self-satisfied

husband, who was returning from the garden, after just escorting into it

quite a crowd of ladies and there handing them over to a competent

_cavaliere servente_. The meeting of the husband and wife was evidently

unexpected. Mme. M., I don't know why, grew suddenly confused, and a

faint trace of vexation was betrayed in her impatient movement. The

husband, who had been carelessly whistling an air and with an air of

profundity stroking his whiskers, now, on meeting his wife, frowned and

scrutinized her, as I remember now, with a markedly inquisitorial stare.

"You are going into the garden?" he asked, noticing the parasol and book

in her hand.

"No, into the copse," she said, with a slight flush.

"Alone?"

"With him," said Mme. M., pointing to me. "I always go a walk alone in

the morning," she added, speaking in an uncertain, hesitating voice, as

people do when they tell their first lie.

"H'm ... and I have just taken the whole party there. They have all met

there together in the flower arbour to see N. off. He is going away, you

know.... Something has gone wrong in Odessa. Your cousin" (he meant the

fair beauty) "is laughing and crying at the same time; there is no

making her out. She says, though, that you are angry with N. about

something and so wouldn't go and see him off. Nonsense, of course?"

"She's laughing," said Mme. M., coming down the verandah steps.

"So this is your daily _cavaliere servente_," added M. M., with a wry

smile, turning his lorgnette upon me.

"Page!" I cried, angered by the lorgnette and the jeer; and laughing

straight in his face I jumped down the three steps of the verandah at

one bound.

"A pleasant walk," muttered M. M., and went on his way.

Of course, I immediately joined Mme. M. as soon as she indicated me to

her husband, and looked as though she had invited me to do so an hour

before, and as though I had been accompanying her on her walks every

morning for the last month. But I could not make out why she was so

confused, so embarrassed, and what was in her mind when she brought

herself to have recourse to her little lie? Why had she not simply said

that she was going alone? I did not know how to look at her, but

overwhelmed with wonder I began by degrees very naïvely peeping into her

face; but just as an hour before at the rehearsal she did not notice

either my looks or my mute question. The same anxiety, only more intense

and more distinct, was apparent in her face, in her agitation, in her

walk. She was in haste, and walked more and more quickly and kept

looking uneasily down every avenue, down every path in the wood that led

in the direction of the garden. And I, too, was expecting something.

Suddenly there was the sound of horses' hoofs behind us. It was the

whole party of ladies and gentlemen on horseback escorting N., the

gentleman who was so suddenly deserting us.

Among the ladies was my fair tormentor, of whom M. M. had told us that

she was in tears. But characteristically she was laughing like a child,

and was galloping briskly on a splendid bay horse. On reaching us N.

took off his hat, but did not stop, nor say one word to Mme. M. Soon all

the cavalcade disappeared from our sight. I glanced at Mme. M. and

almost cried out in wonder; she was standing as white as a handkerchief

and big tears were gushing from her eyes. By chance our eyes met: Mme.

M. suddenly flushed and turned away for an instant, and a distinct look

of uneasiness and vexation flitted across her face. I was in the way,

worse even than last time, that was clearer than day, but how was I to

get away?

And, as though guessing my difficulty, Mme. M. opened the book which she

had in her hand, and colouring and evidently trying not to look at me

she said, as though she had only suddenly realized it--

"Ah! It is the second part. I've made a mistake; please bring me the

first."

I could not but understand. My part was over, and I could not have been

more directly dismissed.

I ran off with her book and did not come back. The first part lay

undisturbed on the table that morning....

But I was not myself; in my heart there was a sort of haunting terror. I

did my utmost not to meet Mme. M. But I looked with wild curiosity at

the self-satisfied person of M. M., as though there must be something

special about him now. I don't understand what was the meaning of my

absurd curiosity. I only remember that I was strangely perplexed by all

that I had chanced to see that morning. But the day was only just

beginning and it was fruitful in events for me.

Dinner was very early that day. An expedition to a neighbouring hamlet

to see a village festival that was taking place there had been fixed for

the evening, and so it was necessary to be in time to get ready. I had

been dreaming for the last three days of this excursion, anticipating

all sorts of delights. Almost all the company gathered together on the

verandah for coffee. I cautiously followed the others and concealed

myself behind the third row of chairs. I was attracted by curiosity, and

yet I was very anxious not to be seen by Mme. M. But as luck would have

it I was not far from my fair tormentor. Something miraculous and

incredible was happening to her that day; she looked twice as handsome.

I don't know how and why this happens, but such miracles are by no means

rare with women. There was with us at this moment a new guest, a tall,

pale-faced young man, the official admirer of our fair beauty, who had

just arrived from Moscow as though on purpose to replace N., of whom

rumour said that he was desperately in love with the same lady. As for

the newly arrived guest, he had for a long time past been on the same

terms as Benedick with Beatrice, in Shakespeare's _Much Ado about

Nothing_. In short, the fair beauty was in her very best form that day.

Her chatter and her jests were so full of grace, so trustfully naïve, so

innocently careless, she was persuaded of the general enthusiasm with

such graceful self-confidence that she really was all the time the

centre of peculiar adoration. A throng of surprised and admiring

listeners was continually round her, and she had never been so

fascinating. Every word she uttered was marvellous and seductive, was

caught up and handed round in the circle, and not one word, one jest,

one sally was lost. I fancy no one had expected from her such taste,

such brilliance, such wit. Her best qualities were, as a rule, buried

under the most harum-scarum wilfulness, the most schoolboyish pranks,

almost verging on buffoonery; they were rarely noticed, and, when they

were, were hardly believed in, so that now her extraordinary brilliancy

was accompanied by an eager whisper of amazement among all. There was,

however, one peculiar and rather delicate circumstance, judging at least

by the part in it played by Mme. M.'s husband, which contributed to her

success. The madcap ventured--and I must add to the satisfaction of

almost every one or, at any rate, to the satisfaction of all the young

people--to make a furious attack upon him, owing to many causes,

probably of great consequence in her eyes. She carried on with him a

regular cross-fire of witticisms, of mocking and sarcastic sallies, of

that most illusive and treacherous kind that, smoothly wrapped up on the

surface, hit the mark without giving the victim anything to lay hold of,

and exhaust him in fruitless efforts to repel the attack, reducing him

to fury and comic despair.

I don't know for certain, but I fancy the whole proceeding was not

improvised but premeditated. This desperate duel had begun earlier, at

dinner. I call it desperate because M. M. was not quick to surrender. He

had to call upon all his presence of mind, all his sharp wit and rare

resourcefulness not to be completely covered with ignominy. The conflict

was accompanied by the continual and irrepressible laughter of all who

witnessed and took part in it. That day was for him very different from

the day before. It was noticeable that Mme. M. several times did her

utmost to stop her indiscreet friend, who was certainly trying to depict

the jealous husband in the most grotesque and absurd guise, in the guise

of "a bluebeard" it must be supposed, judging from all probabilities,

from what has remained in my memory and finally from the part which I

myself was destined to play in the affair.

I was drawn into it in a most absurd manner, quite unexpectedly. And as

ill-luck would have it at that moment I was standing where I could be

seen, suspecting no evil and actually forgetting the precautions I had

so long practised. Suddenly I was brought into the foreground as a sworn

foe and natural rival of M. M., as desperately in love with his wife, of

which my persecutress vowed and swore that she had proofs, saying that

only that morning she had seen in the copse....

But before she had time to finish I broke in at the most desperate

minute. That minute was so diabolically calculated, was so treacherously

prepared to lead up to its finale, its ludicrous _dénouement_, and was

brought out with such killing humour that a perfect outburst of

irrepressible mirth saluted this last sally. And though even at the time

I guessed that mine was not the most unpleasant part in the performance,

yet I was so confused, so irritated and alarmed that, full of misery and

despair, gasping with shame and tears, I dashed through two rows of

chairs, stepped forward, and addressing my tormentor, cried, in a voice

broken with tears and indignation:

"Aren't you ashamed ... aloud ... before all the ladies ... to tell such

a wicked ... lie?... Like a small child ... before all these men....

What will they say?... A big girl like you ... and married!..."

But I could not go on, there was a deafening roar of applause. My

outburst created a perfect furore. My naïve gesture, my tears, and

especially the fact that I seemed to be defending M. M., all this

provoked such fiendish laughter, that even now I cannot help laughing at

the mere recollection of it. I was overcome with confusion, senseless

with horror and, burning with shame, hiding my face in my hands rushed

away, knocked a tray out of the hands of a footman who was coming in at

the door, and flew upstairs to my own room. I pulled out the key, which

was on the outside of the door, and locked myself in. I did well, for

there was a hue and cry after me. Before a minute had passed my door was

besieged by a mob of the prettiest ladies. I heard their ringing

laughter, their incessant chatter, their trilling voices; they were all

twittering at once, like swallows. All of them, every one of them,

begged and besought me to open the door, if only for a moment; swore

that no harm should come to me, only that they wanted to smother me with

kisses. But ... what could be more horrible than this novel threat? I

simply burned with shame the other side of the door, hiding my face in

the pillows and did not open, did not even respond. The ladies kept up

their knocking for a long time, but I was deaf and obdurate as only a

boy of eleven could be.

But what could I do now? Everything was laid bare, everything had been

exposed, everything I had so jealously guarded and concealed!...

Everlasting disgrace and shame had fallen on me! But it is true that I

could not myself have said why I was frightened and what I wanted to

hide; yet I was frightened of something and had trembled like a leaf at

the thought of _that something's_ being discovered. Only till that

minute I had not known what it was: whether it was good or bad, splendid

or shameful, praiseworthy or reprehensible? Now in my distress, in the

misery that had been forced upon me, I learned that it was _absurd_ and

_shameful_. Instinctively I felt at the same time that this verdict was

false, inhuman, and coarse; but I was crushed, annihilated;

consciousness seemed checked in me and thrown into confusion; I could

not stand up against that verdict, nor criticize it properly. I was

befogged; I only felt that my heart had been inhumanly and shamelessly

wounded, and was brimming over with impotent tears. I was irritated; but

I was boiling with indignation and hate such as I had never felt before,

for it was the first time in my life that I had known real sorrow,

insult, and injury--and it was truly that, without any exaggeration. The

first untried, unformed feeling had been so coarsely handled in me, a

child. The first fragrant, virginal modesty had been so soon exposed and

insulted, and the first and perhaps very real and æsthetic impression

had been so outraged. Of course there was much my persecutors did not

know and did not divine in my sufferings. One circumstance, which I had

not succeeded in analysing till then, of which I had been as it were

afraid, partly entered into it. I went on lying on my bed in despair and

misery, hiding my face in my pillow, and I was alternately feverish and

shivery. I was tormented by two questions: first, what had the wretched

fair beauty seen, and, in fact, what could she have seen that morning in

the copse between Mme. M. and me? And secondly, how could I now look

Mme. M. in the face without dying on the spot of shame and despair?

An extraordinary noise in the yard roused me at last from the state of

semi-consciousness into which I had fallen. I got up and went to the

window. The whole yard was packed with carriages, saddle-horses, and

bustling servants. It seemed that they were all setting off; some of the

gentlemen had already mounted their horses, others were taking their

places in the carriages.... Then I remembered the expedition to the

village fête, and little by little an uneasiness came over me; I began

anxiously looking for my pony in the yard; but there was no pony there,

so they must have forgotten me. I could not restrain myself, and rushed

headlong downstairs, thinking no more of unpleasant meetings or my

recent ignominy....

Terrible news awaited me. There was neither a horse nor seat in any of

the carriages to spare for me; everything had been arranged, all the

seats were taken, and I was forced to give place to others. Overwhelmed

by this fresh blow, I stood on the steps and looked mournfully at the

long rows of coaches, carriages, and chaises, in which there was not the

tiniest corner left for me, and at the smartly dressed ladies, whose

horses were restlessly curvetting.

One of the gentlemen was late. They were only waiting for his arrival to

set off. His horse was standing at the door, champing the bit, pawing

the earth with his hoofs, and at every moment starting and rearing. Two

stable-boys were carefully holding him by the bridle, and every one else

apprehensively stood at a respectful distance from him.

A most vexatious circumstance had occurred, which prevented my going. In

addition to the fact that new visitors had arrived, filling up all the

seats, two of the horses had fallen ill, one of them being my pony. But

I was not the only person to suffer: it appeared that there was no horse

for our new visitor, the pale-faced young man of whom I have spoken

already. To get over this difficulty our host had been obliged to have

recourse to the extreme step of offering his fiery unbroken stallion,

adding, to satisfy his conscience, that it was impossible to ride him,

and that they had long intended to sell the beast for its vicious

character, if only a purchaser could be found.

But, in spite of his warning, the visitor declared that he was a good

horseman, and in any case ready to mount anything rather than not go.

Our host said no more, but now I fancied that a sly and ambiguous smile

was straying on his lips. He waited for the gentleman who had spoken so

well of his own horsemanship, and stood, without mounting his horse,

impatiently rubbing his hands and continually glancing towards the door;

some similar feeling seemed shared by the two stable-boys, who were

holding the stallion, almost breathless with pride at seeing themselves

before the whole company in charge of a horse which might any minute

kill a man for no reason whatever. Something akin to their master's sly

smile gleamed, too, in their eyes, which were round with expectation,

and fixed upon the door from which the bold visitor was to appear. The

horse himself, too, behaved as though he were in league with our host

and the stable-boys. He bore himself proudly and haughtily, as though he

felt that he were being watched by several dozen curious eyes and were

glorying in his evil reputation exactly as some incorrigible rogue might

glory in his criminal exploits. He seemed to be defying the bold man who

would venture to curb his independence.

That bold man did at last make his appearance. Conscience-stricken at

having kept every one waiting, hurriedly drawing on his gloves, he came

forward without looking at anything, ran down the steps, and only raised

his eyes as he stretched out his hand to seize the mane of the waiting

horse. But he was at once disconcerted by his frantic rearing and a

warning scream from the frightened spectators. The young man stepped

back and looked in perplexity at the vicious horse, which was quivering

all over, snorting with anger, and rolling his bloodshot eyes

ferociously, continually rearing on his hind legs and flinging up his

fore legs as though he meant to bolt into the air and carry the two

stable-boys with him. For a minute the young man stood completely

nonplussed; then, flushing slightly with some embarrassment, he raised

his eyes and looked at the frightened ladies.

"A very fine horse!" he said, as though to himself, "and to my thinking

it ought to be a great pleasure to ride him; but ... but do you know, I

think I won't go?" he concluded, turning to our host with the broad,

good-natured smile which so suited his kind and clever face.

"Yet I consider you are an excellent horseman, I assure you," answered

the owner of the unapproachable horse, delighted, and he warmly and even

gratefully pressed the young man's hand, "just because from the first

moment you saw the sort of brute you had to deal with," he added with

dignity. "Would you believe me, though I have served twenty-three years

in the hussars, yet I've had the pleasure of being laid on the ground

three times, thanks to that beast, that is, as often as I mounted the

useless animal. Tancred, my boy, there's no one here fit for you! Your

rider, it seems, must be some Ilya Muromets, and he must be sitting

quiet now in the village of Kapatcharovo, waiting for your teeth to fall

out. Come, take him away, he has frightened people enough. It was a

waste of time to bring him out," he cried, rubbing his hands

complacently.

It must be observed that Tancred was no sort of use to his master and

simply ate corn for nothing; moreover, the old hussar had lost his

reputation for a knowledge of horseflesh by paying a fabulous sum for

the worthless beast, which he had purchased only for his beauty ... yet

he was delighted now that Tancred had kept up his reputation, had

disposed of another rider, and so had drawn closer on himself fresh

senseless laurels.

"So you are not going?" cried the blonde beauty, who was particularly

anxious that her _cavaliere servente_ should be in attendance on this

occasion. "Surely you are not frightened?"

"Upon my word I am," answered the young man.

"Are you in earnest?"

"Why, do you want me to break my neck?"

"Then make haste and get on my horse; don't be afraid, it is very quiet.

We won't delay them, they can change the saddles in a minute! I'll try

to take yours. Surely Tancred can't always be so unruly."

No sooner said than done, the madcap leaped out of the saddle and was

standing before us as she finished the last sentence.

"You don't know Tancred, if you think he will allow your wretched

side-saddle to be put on him! Besides, I would not let you break your

neck, it would be a pity!" said our host, at that moment of inward

gratification affecting, as his habit was, a studied brusqueness and

even coarseness of speech which he thought in keeping with a jolly good

fellow and an old soldier, and which he imagined to be particularly

attractive to the ladies. This was one of his favourite fancies, his

favourite whim, with which we were all familiar.

"Well, cry-baby, wouldn't you like to have a try? You wanted so much to

go?" said the valiant horsewoman, noticing me and pointing tauntingly at

Tancred, because I had been so imprudent as to catch her eye, and she

would not let me go without a biting word, that she might not have

dismounted from her horse absolutely for nothing.

"I expect you are not such a---- We all know you are a hero and would be

ashamed to be afraid; especially when you will be looked at, you fine

page," she added, with a fleeting glance at Mme. M., whose carriage was

the nearest to the entrance.

A rush of hatred and vengeance had flooded my heart, when the fair

Amazon had approached us with the intention of mounting Tancred.... But

I cannot describe what I felt at this unexpected challenge from the

madcap. Everything was dark before my eyes when I saw her glance at Mme.

M. For an instant an idea flashed through my mind ... but it was only a

moment, less than a moment, like a flash of gunpowder; perhaps it was

the last straw, and I suddenly now was moved to rage as my spirit rose,

so that I longed to put all my enemies to utter confusion, and to

revenge myself on all of them and before everyone, by showing the sort

of person I was. Or whether by some miracle, some prompting from

mediæval history, of which I had known nothing till then, sent whirling

through my giddy brain, images of tournaments, paladins, heroes, lovely

ladies, the clash of swords, shouts and the applause of the crowd, and

amidst those shouts the timid cry of a frightened heart, which moves the

proud soul more sweetly than victory and fame--I don't know whether all

this romantic nonsense was in my head at the time, or whether, more

likely, only the first dawning of the inevitable nonsense that was in

store for me in the future, anyway, I felt that my hour had come. My

heart leaped and shuddered, and I don't remember how, at one bound, I

was down the steps and beside Tancred.

"You think I am afraid?" I cried, boldly and proudly, in such a fever

that I could hardly see, breathless with excitement, and flushing till

the tears scalded my cheeks. "Well, you shall see!" And clutching at

Tancred's mane I put my foot in the stirrup before they had time to make

a movement to stop me; but at that instant Tancred reared, jerked his

head, and with a mighty bound forward wrenched himself out of the hands

of the petrified stable-boys, and dashed off like a hurricane, while

every one cried out in horror.

Goodness knows how I got my other leg over the horse while it was in

full gallop; I can't imagine, either, how I did not lose hold of the

reins. Tancred bore me beyond the trellis gate, turned sharply to the

right and flew along beside the fence regardless of the road. Only at

that moment I heard behind me a shout from fifty voices, and that shout

was echoed in my swooning heart with such a feeling of pride and

pleasure that I shall never forget that mad moment of my boyhood. All

the blood rushed to my head, bewildering me and overpowering my fears. I

was beside myself. There certainly was, as I remember it now, something

of the knight-errant about the exploit.

My knightly exploits, however, were all over in an instant or it would

have gone badly with the knight. And, indeed, I do not know how I

escaped as it was. I did know how to ride, I had been taught. But my

pony was more like a sheep than a riding horse. No doubt I should have

been thrown off Tancred if he had had time to throw me, but after

galloping fifty paces he suddenly took fright at a huge stone which lay

across the road and bolted back. He turned sharply, galloping at full

speed, so that it is a puzzle to me even now that I was not sent

spinning out of the saddle and flying like a ball for twenty feet, that

I was not dashed to pieces, and that Tancred did not dislocate his leg

by such a sudden turn. He rushed back to the gate, tossing his head

furiously, bounding from side to side as though drunk with rage,

flinging his legs at random in the air, and at every leap trying to

shake me off his back as though a tiger had leaped on him and were

thrusting its teeth and claws into his back.

In another instant I should have flown off; I was falling; but several

gentlemen flew to my rescue. Two of them intercepted the way into the

open country, two others galloped up, closing in upon Tancred so that

their horses' sides almost crushed my legs, and both of them caught him

by the bridle. A few seconds later we were back at the steps.

They lifted me down from the horse, pale and scarcely breathing. I was

shaking like a blade of grass in the wind; it was the same with Tancred,

who was standing, his hoofs as it were thrust into the earth and his

whole body thrown back, puffing his fiery breath from red and streaming

nostrils, twitching and quivering all over, seeming overwhelmed with

wounded pride and anger at a child's being so bold with impunity. All

around me I heard cries of bewilderment, surprise, and alarm.

At that moment my straying eyes caught those of Mme. M., who looked pale

and agitated, and--I can never forget that moment--in one instant my

face was flooded with colour, glowed and burned like fire; I don't know

what happened to me, but confused and frightened by my own feelings I

timidly dropped my eyes to the ground. But my glance was noticed, it was

caught, it was stolen from me. All eyes turned on Mme. M., and finding

herself unawares the centre of attention, she, too, flushed like a child

from some naïve and involuntary feeling and made an unsuccessful effort

to cover her confusion by laughing....

All this, of course, was very absurd-looking from outside, but at that

moment an extremely naïve and unexpected circumstance saved me from

being laughed at by every one, and gave a special colour to the whole

adventure. The lovely persecutor who was the instigator of the whole

escapade, and who till then had been my irreconcileable foe, suddenly

rushed up to embrace and kiss me. She had hardly been able to believe

her eyes when she saw me dare to accept her challenge, and pick up the

gauntlet she had flung at me by glancing at Mme. M. She had almost died

of terror and self-reproach when I had flown off on Tancred; now, when

it was all over, and particularly when she caught the glance at Mme. M.,

my confusion and my sudden flush of colour, when the romantic strain in

her frivolous little head had given a new secret, unspoken significance

to the moment--she was moved to such enthusiasm over my "knightliness,"

that touched, joyful and proud of me, she rushed up and pressed me to

her bosom. She lifted the most naïve, stern-looking little face, on

which there quivered and gleamed two little crystal tears, and gazing at

the crowd that thronged about her said in a grave, earnest voice, such

as they had never heard her use before, pointing to me: "Mais c'est très

sérieux, messieurs, ne riez pas!" She did not notice that all were

standing, as though fascinated, admiring her bright enthusiasm. Her

swift, unexpected action, her earnest little face, the simple-hearted

naïveté, the unexpected feeling betrayed by the tears that welled in her

invariably laughter-loving eyes, were such a surprise that every one

stood before her as though electrified by her expression, her rapid,

fiery words and gestures. It seemed as though no one could take his eyes

off her for fear of missing that rare moment in her enthusiastic face.

Even our host flushed crimson as a tulip, and people declared that they

heard him confess afterwards that "to his shame" he had been in love for

a whole minute with his charming guest. Well, of course, after this I

was a knight, a hero.

"De Lorge! Toggenburg!" was heard in the crowd.

There was a sound of applause.

"Hurrah for the rising generation!" added the host.

"But he is coming with us, he certainly must come with us," said the

beauty; "we will find him a place, we must find him a place. He shall

sit beside me, on my knee ... but no, no! That's a mistake!..." she

corrected herself, laughing, unable to restrain her mirth at our first

encounter. But as she laughed she stroked my hand tenderly, doing all

she could to soften me, that I might not be offended.

"Of course, of course," several voices chimed in; "he must go, he has

won his place."

The matter was settled in a trice. The same old maid who had brought

about my acquaintance with the blonde beauty was at once besieged with

entreaties from all the younger people to remain at home and let me have

her seat. She was forced to consent, to her intense vexation, with a

smile and a stealthy hiss of anger. Her protectress, who was her usual

refuge, my former foe and new friend, called to her as she galloped off

on her spirited horse, laughing like a child, that she envied her and

would have been glad to stay at home herself, for it was just going to

rain and we should all get soaked.

And she was right in predicting rain. A regular downpour came on within

an hour and the expedition was done for. We had to take shelter for some

hours in the huts of the village, and had to return home between nine

and ten in the evening in the damp mist that followed the rain. I began

to be a little feverish. At the minute when I was starting, Mme. M. came

up to me and expressed surprise that my neck was uncovered and that I

had nothing on over my jacket. I answered that I had not had time to get

my coat. She took out a pin and pinned up the turned down collar of my

shirt, took off her own neck a crimson gauze kerchief, and put it round

my neck that I might not get a sore throat. She did this so hurriedly

that I had not time even to thank her.

But when we got home I found her in the little drawing-room with the

blonde beauty and the pale-faced young man who had gained glory for

horsemanship that day by refusing to ride Tancred. I went up to thank

her and give back the scarf. But now, after all my adventures, I felt

somehow ashamed. I wanted to make haste and get upstairs, there at my

leisure to reflect and consider. I was brimming over with impressions.

As I gave back the kerchief I blushed up to my ears, as usual.

"I bet he would like to keep the kerchief," said the young man laughing.

"One can see that he is sorry to part with your scarf."

"That's it, that's it!" the fair lady put in. "What a boy! Oh!" she

said, shaking her head with obvious vexation, but she stopped in time at

a grave glance from Mme. M., who did not want to carry the jest too far.

I made haste to get away.

"Well, you are a boy," said the madcap, overtaking me in the next room

and affectionately taking me by both hands, "why, you should have simply

not returned the kerchief if you wanted so much to have it. You should

have said you put it down somewhere, and that would have been the end of

it. What a simpleton! Couldn't even do that! What a funny boy!"

And she tapped me on the chin with her finger, laughing at my having

flushed as red as a poppy.

"I am your friend now, you know; am I not? Our enmity is over, isn't it?

Yes or no?"

I laughed and pressed her fingers without a word.

"Oh, why are you so ... why are you so pale and shivering? Have you

caught a chill?"

"Yes, I don't feel well."

"Ah, poor fellow! That's the result of over-excitement. Do you know

what? You had better go to bed without sitting up for supper, and you

will be all right in the morning. Come along."

She took me upstairs, and there was no end to the care she lavished on

me. Leaving me to undress she ran downstairs, got me some tea, and

brought it up herself when I was in bed. She brought me up a warm quilt

as well. I was much impressed and touched by all the care and attention

lavished on me; or perhaps I was affected by the whole day, the

expedition and feverishness. As I said good-night to her I hugged her

warmly, as though she were my dearest and nearest friend, and in my

exhausted state all the emotions of the day came back to me in a rush; I

almost shed tears as I nestled to her bosom. She noticed my overwrought

condition, and I believe my madcap herself was a little touched.

"You are a very good boy," she said, looking at me with gentle eyes,

"please don't be angry with me. You won't, will you?"

In fact, we became the warmest and truest of friends.

It was rather early when I woke up, but the sun was already flooding the

whole room with brilliant light. I jumped out of bed feeling perfectly

well and strong, as though I had had no fever the day before; indeed, I

felt now unutterably joyful. I recalled the previous day and felt that I

would have given any happiness if I could at that minute have embraced

my new friend, the fair-haired beauty, again, as I had the night before;

but it was very early and every one was still asleep. Hurriedly dressing

I went out into the garden and from there into the copse. I made my way

where the leaves were thickest, where the fragrance of the trees was

more resinous, and where the sun peeped in most gaily, rejoicing that it

could penetrate the dense darkness of the foliage. It was a lovely

morning.

Going on further and further, before I was aware of it I had reached the

further end of the copse and came out on the river Moskva. It flowed at

the bottom of the hill two hundred paces below. On the opposite bank of

the river they were mowing. I watched whole rows of sharp scythes gleam

all together in the sunlight at every swing of the mower and then vanish

again like little fiery snakes going into hiding; I watched the cut

grass flying on one side in dense rich swathes and being laid in long

straight lines. I don't know how long I spent in contemplation. At last

I was roused from my reverie by hearing a horse snorting and impatiently

pawing the ground twenty paces from me, in the track which ran from the

high road to the manor house. I don't know whether I heard this horse as

soon as the rider rode up and stopped there, or whether the sound had

long been in my ears without rousing me from my dreaming. Moved by

curiosity I went into the copse, and before I had gone many steps I

caught the sound of voices speaking rapidly, though in subdued tones. I

went up closer, carefully parting the branches of the bushes that edged

the path, and at once sprang back in amazement. I caught a glimpse of a

familiar white dress and a soft feminine voice resounded like music in

my heart. It was Mme. M. She was standing beside a man on horseback who,

stooping down from the saddle, was hurriedly talking to her, and to my

amazement I recognized him as N., the young man who had gone away the

morning before and over whose departure M. M. had been so busy. But

people had said at the time that he was going far away to somewhere in

the South of Russia, and so I was very much surprised at seeing him with

us again so early, and alone with Mme. M.

She was moved and agitated as I had never seen her before, and tears

were glistening on her cheeks. The young man was holding her hand and

stooping down to kiss it. I had come upon them at the moment of parting.

They seemed to be in haste. At last he took out of his pocket a sealed

envelope, gave it to Mme. M., put one arm round her, still not

dismounting, and gave her a long, fervent kiss. A minute later he lashed

his horse and flew past me like an arrow. Mme. M. looked after him for

some moments, then pensively and disconsolately turned homewards. But

after going a few steps along the track she seemed suddenly to recollect

herself, hurriedly parted the bushes and walked on through the copse.

I followed her, surprised and perplexed by all that I had seen. My heart

was beating violently, as though from terror. I was, as it were,

benumbed and befogged; my ideas were shattered and turned upside down;

but I remember I was, for some reason, very sad. I got glimpses from

time to time through the green foliage of her white dress before me: I

followed her mechanically, never losing sight of her, though I trembled

at the thought that she might notice me. At last she came out on the

little path that led to the house. After waiting half a minute I, too,

emerged from the bushes; but what was my amazement when I saw lying on

the red sand of the path a sealed packet, which I recognized, from the

first glance, as the one that had been given to Mme. M. ten minutes

before.

I picked it up. On both sides the paper was blank, there was no address

on it. The envelope was not large, but it was fat and heavy, as though

there were three or more sheets of notepaper in it.

What was the meaning of this envelope? No doubt it would explain the

whole mystery. Perhaps in it there was said all that N. had scarcely

hoped to express in their brief, hurried interview. He had not even

dismounted.... Whether he had been in haste or whether he had been

afraid of being false to himself at the hour of parting--God only

knows....

I stopped, without coming out on the path, threw the envelope in the

most conspicuous place on it, and kept my eyes upon it, supposing that

Mme. M. would notice the loss and come back and look for it. But after

waiting four minutes I could stand it no longer, I picked up my find

again, put it in my pocket, and set off to overtake Mme. M. I came upon

her in the big avenue in the garden. She was walking straight towards

the house with a swift and hurried step, though she was lost in thought,

and her eyes were on the ground. I did not know what to do. Go up to

her, give it her? That would be as good as saying that I knew

everything, that I had seen it all. I should betray myself at the first

word. And how should I look, at her? How would she look at me. I kept

expecting that she would discover her loss and return on her tracks.

Then I could, unnoticed, have flung the envelope on the path and she

would have found it. But no! We were approaching the house; she had

already been noticed....

As ill-luck would have it every one had got up very early that day,

because, after the unsuccessful expedition of the evening before, they

had arranged something new, of which I had heard nothing. All were

preparing to set off, and were having breakfast in the verandah. I

waited for ten minutes, that I might not be seen with Mme. M., and

making a circuit of the garden approached the house from the other side

a long time after her. She was walking up and down the verandah with her

arms folded, looking pale and agitated, and was obviously trying her

utmost to suppress the agonizing, despairing misery which could be

plainly discerned in her eyes, her walk, her every movement. Sometimes

she went down the verandah steps and walked a few paces among the

flower-beds in the direction of the garden; her eyes were impatiently,

greedily, even incautiously, seeking something on the sand of the path

and on the floor of the verandah. There could be no doubt she had

discovered her loss and imagined she had dropped the letter somewhere

here, near the house--yes, that must be so, she was convinced of it.

Some one noticed that she was pale and agitated, and others made the

same remark. She was besieged with questions about her health and

condolences. She had to laugh, to jest, to appear lively. From time to

time she looked at her husband, who was standing at the end of the

terrace talking to two ladies, and the poor woman was overcome by the

same shudder, the same embarrassment, as on the day of his first

arrival. Thrusting my hand into my pocket and holding the letter tight

in it, I stood at a little distance from them all, praying to fate that

Mme. M. should notice me. I longed to cheer her up, to relieve her

anxiety if only by a glance; to say a word to her on the sly. But when

she did chance to look at me I dropped my eyes.

I saw her distress and I was not mistaken. To this day I don't know her

secret. I know nothing but what I saw and what I have just described.

The intrigue was not such, perhaps, as one might suppose at the first

glance. Perhaps that kiss was the kiss of farewell, perhaps it was the

last slight reward for the sacrifice made to her peace and honour. N.

was going away, he was leaving her, perhaps for ever. Even that letter I

was holding in my hand--who can tell what it contained! How can one

judge? and who can condemn? And yet there is no doubt that the sudden

discovery of her secret would have been terrible--would have been a

fatal blow for her. I still remember her face at that minute, it could

not have shown more suffering. To feel, to know, to be convinced, to

expect, as though it were one's execution, that in a quarter of an hour,

in a minute perhaps, all might be discovered, the letter might be found

by some one, picked up; there was no address on it, it might be opened,

and then.... What then? What torture could be worse than what was

awaiting her? She moved about among those who would be her judges. In

another minute their smiling flattering faces would be menacing and

merciless. She would read mockery, malice and icy contempt on those

faces, and then her life would be plunged in everlasting darkness, with

no dawn to follow.... Yes, I did not understand it then as I understand

it now. I could only have vague suspicions and misgivings, and a

heart-ache at the thought of her danger, which I could not fully

understand. But whatever lay hidden in her secret, much was expiated, if

expiation were needed, by those moments of anguish of which I was

witness and which I shall never forget.

But then came a cheerful summons to set off; immediately every one was

bustling about gaily; laughter and lively chatter were heard on all

sides. Within two minutes the verandah was deserted. Mme. M. declined to

join the party, acknowledging at last that she was not well. But, thank

God, all the others set off, every one was in haste, and there was no

time to worry her with commiseration, inquiries, and advice. A few

remained at home. Her husband said a few words to her; she answered that

she would be all right directly, that he need not be uneasy, that there

was no occasion for her to lie down, that she would go into the garden,

alone ... with me ... here she glanced at me. Nothing could be more

fortunate! I flushed with pleasure, with delight; a minute later we were

on the way.

She walked along the same avenues and paths by which she had returned

from the copse, instinctively remembering the way she had come, gazing

before her with her eyes fixed on the ground, looking about intently

without answering me, possibly forgetting that I was walking beside her.

But when we had already reached the place where I had picked up the

letter, and the path ended, Mme. M. suddenly stopped, and in a voice

faint and weak with misery said that she felt worse, and that she would

go home. But when she reached the garden fence she stopped again and

thought a minute; a smile of despair came on her lips, and utterly worn

out and exhausted, resigned, and making up her mind to the worst, she

turned without a word and retraced her steps, even forgetting to tell me

of her intention.

My heart was torn with sympathy, and I did not know what to do.

We went, or rather I led her, to the place from which an hour before I

had heard the tramp of a horse and their conversation. Here, close to a

shady elm tree, was a seat hewn out of one huge stone, about which grew

ivy, wild jasmine, and dog-rose; the whole wood was dotted with little

bridges, arbours, grottoes, and similar surprises. Mme. M. sat down on

the bench and glanced unconsciously at the marvellous view that lay open

before us. A minute later she opened her book, and fixed her eyes upon

it without reading, without turning the pages, almost unconscious of

what she was doing. It was about half-past nine. The sun was already

high and was floating gloriously in the deep, dark blue sky, as though

melting away in its own light. The mowers were by now far away; they

were scarcely visible from our side of the river; endless ridges of mown

grass crept after them in unbroken succession, and from time to time the

faintly stirring breeze wafted their fragrance to us. The never ceasing

concert of those who "sow not, neither do they reap" and are free as the

air they cleave with their sportive wings was all about us. It seemed as

though at that moment every flower, every blade of grass was exhaling

the aroma of sacrifice, was saying to its Creator, "Father, I am blessed

and happy."

I glanced at the poor woman, who alone was like one dead amidst all this

joyous life; two big tears hung motionless on her lashes, wrung from her

heart by bitter grief. It was in my power to relieve and console this

poor, fainting heart, only I did not know how to approach the subject,

how to take the first step. I was in agonies. A hundred times I was on

the point of going up to her, but every time my face glowed like fire.

Suddenly a bright idea dawned upon me. I had found a way of doing it; I

revived.

"Would you like me to pick you a nosegay?" I said, in such a joyful

voice that Mme M. immediately raised her head and looked at me intently.

"Yes, do," she said at last in a weak voice, with a faint smile, at once

dropping her eyes on the book again.

"Or soon they will be mowing the grass here and there will be no

flowers," I cried, eagerly setting to work.

I had soon picked my nosegay, a poor, simple one, I should have been

ashamed to take it indoors; but how light my heart was as I picked the

flowers and tied them up! The dog-rose and the wild jasmine I picked

closer to the seat, I knew that not far off there was a field of rye,

not yet ripe. I ran there for cornflowers; I mixed them with tall ears

of rye, picking out the finest and most golden. Close by I came upon a

perfect nest of forget-me-nots, and my nosegay was almost complete.

Farther away in the meadow there were dark-blue campanulas and wild

pinks, and I ran down to the very edge of the river to get yellow

water-lilies. At last, making my way back, and going for an instant into

the wood to get some bright green fan-shaped leaves of the maple to put

round the nosegay, I happened to come across a whole family of pansies,

close to which, luckily for me, the fragrant scent of violets betrayed

the little flower hiding in the thick lush grass and still glistening

with drops of dew. The nosegay was complete. I bound it round with fine

long grass which twisted into a rope, and I carefully lay the letter in

the centre, hiding it with the flowers, but in such a way that it could

be very easily noticed if the slightest attention were bestowed upon my

nosegay.

I carried it to Mme. M.

On the way it seemed to me that the letter was lying too much in view: I

hid it a little more. As I got nearer I thrust it still further in the

flowers; and finally, when I was on the spot, I suddenly poked it so

deeply into the centre of the nosegay that it could not be noticed at

all from outside. My cheeks were positively flaming. I wanted to hide my

face in my hands and run away at once, but she glanced at my flowers as

though she had completely forgotten that I had gathered them.

Mechanically, almost without looking, she held out her hand and took my

present; but at once laid it on the seat as though I had handed it to

her for that purpose and dropped her eyes to her book again, seeming

lost in thought. I was ready to cry at this mischance. "If only my

nosegay were close to her," I thought; "if only she had not forgotten

it!" I lay down on the grass not far off, put my right arm under my

head, and closed my eyes as though I were overcome by drowsiness. But I

waited, keeping my eyes fixed on her.

Ten minutes passed, it seemed to me that she was getting paler and paler

... fortunately a blessed chance came to my aid.

This was a big, golden bee, brought by a kindly breeze, luckily for me.

It first buzzed over my head, and then flew up to Mme. M. She waved it

off once or twice, but the bee grew more and more persistent. At last

Mme. M. snatched up my nosegay and waved it before my face. At that

instant the letter dropped out from among the flowers and fell straight

upon the open book. I started. For some time Mme. M., mute with

amazement, stared first at the letter and then at the flowers which she

was holding in her hands, and she seemed unable to believe her eyes. All

at once she flushed, started, and glanced at me. But I caught her

movement and I shut my eyes tight, pretending to be asleep. Nothing

would have induced me to look her straight in the face at that moment.

My heart was throbbing and leaping like a bird in the grasp of some

village boy. I don't remember how long I lay with my eyes shut, two or

three minutes. At last I ventured to open them. Mme. M. was greedily

reading the letter, and from her glowing cheeks, her sparkling, tearful

eyes, her bright face, every feature of which was quivering with joyful

emotion, I guessed that there was happiness in the letter and all her

misery was dispersed like smoke. An agonizing, sweet feeling gnawed at

my heart, it was hard for me to go on pretending....

I shall never forget that minute!

Suddenly, a long way off, we heard voices--

"Mme. M.! Natalie! Natalie!"

Mme. M. did not answer, but she got up quickly from the seat, came up to

me and bent over me. I felt that she was looking straight into my face.

My eyelashes quivered, but I controlled myself and did not open my eyes.

I tried to breathe more evenly and quietly, but my heart smothered me

with its violent throbbing. Her burning breath scorched my cheeks; she

bent close down to my face as though trying to make sure. At last a kiss

and tears fell on my hand, the one which was lying on my breast.

"Natalie! Natalie! where are you," we heard again, this time quite

close.

"Coming," said Mme. M., in her mellow, silvery voice, which was so

choked and quivering with tears and so subdued that no one but I could

hear that, "Coming!"

But at that instant my heart at last betrayed me and seemed to send all

my blood rushing to my face. At that instant a swift, burning kiss

scalded my lips. I uttered a faint cry. I opened my eyes, but at once

the same gauze kerchief fell upon them, as though she meant to screen me

from the sun. An instant later she was gone. I heard nothing but the

sound of rapidly retreating steps. I was alone....

I pulled off her kerchief and kissed it, beside myself with rapture; for

some moments I was almost frantic.... Hardly able to breathe, leaning on

my elbow on the grass, I stared unconsciously before me at the

surrounding slopes, streaked with cornfields, at the river that flowed

twisting and winding far away, as far as the eye could see, between

fresh hills and villages that gleamed like dots all over the sunlit

distance--at the dark-blue, hardly visible forests, which seemed as

though smoking at the edge of the burning sky, and a sweet stillness

inspired by the triumphant peacefulness of the picture gradually brought

calm to my troubled heart. I felt more at ease and breathed more freely,

but my whole soul was full of a dumb, sweet yearning, as though a veil

had been drawn from my eyes as though at a foretaste of something. My

frightened heart, faintly quivering with expectation, was groping

timidly and joyfully towards some conjecture ... and all at once my

bosom heaved, began aching as though something had pierced it, and

tears, sweet tears, gushed from my eyes. I hid my face in my hands, and

quivering like a blade of grass, gave myself up to the first

consciousness and revelation of my heart, the first vague glimpse of my

nature. My childhood was over from that moment.

* * * * *

When two hours later I returned home I did not find Mme. M. Through some

sudden chance she had gone back to Moscow with her husband. I never saw

her again.

MR. PROHARTCHIN

A STORY

In the darkest and humblest corner of Ustinya Fyodorovna's flat lived

Semyon Ivanovitch Prohartchin, a well-meaning elderly man, who did not

drink. Since Mr. Prohartchin was of a very humble grade in the service,

and received a salary strictly proportionate to his official capacity,

Ustinya Fyodorovna could not get more than five roubles a month from him

for his lodging. Some people said that she had her own reasons for

accepting him as a lodger; but, be that as it may, as though in despite

of all his detractors, Mr. Prohartchin actually became her favourite, in

an honourable and virtuous sense, of course. It must be observed that

Ustinya Fyodorovna, a very respectable woman, who had a special

partiality for meat and coffee, and found it difficult to keep the

fasts, let rooms to several other boarders who paid twice as much as

Semyon Ivanovitch, yet not being quiet lodgers, but on the contrary all

of them "spiteful scoffers" at her feminine ways and her forlorn

helplessness, stood very low in her good opinion, so that if it had not

been for the rent they paid, she would not have cared to let them stay,

nor indeed to see them in her flat at all. Semyon Ivanovitch had become

her favourite from the day when a retired, or, perhaps more correctly

speaking, discharged clerk, with a weakness for strong drink, was

carried to his last resting-place in Volkovo. Though this gentleman had

only one eye, having had the other knocked out owing, in his own words,

to his valiant behaviour; and only one leg, the other having been broken

in the same way owing to his valour; yet he had succeeded in winning all

the kindly feeling of which Ustinya Fyodorovna was capable, and took the

fullest advantage of it, and would probably have gone on for years

living as her devoted satellite and toady if he had not finally drunk

himself to death in the most pitiable way. All this had happened at

Peski, where Ustinya Fyodorovna only had three lodgers, of whom, when

she moved into a new flat and set up on a larger scale, letting to about

a dozen new boarders, Mr. Prohartchin was the only one who remained.

Whether Mr. Prohartchin had certain incorrigible defects, or whether his

companions were, every one of them, to blame, there seemed to be

misunderstandings on both sides from the first. We must observe here

that all Ustinya Fyodorovna's new lodgers without exception got on

together like brothers; some of them were in the same office; each one

of them by turns lost all his money to the others at faro, preference

and _bixe_; they all liked in a merry hour to enjoy what they called the

fizzing moments of life in a crowd together; they were fond, too, at

times of discussing lofty subjects, and though in the end things rarely

passed off without a dispute, yet as all prejudices were banished from

the whole party the general harmony was not in the least disturbed

thereby. The most remarkable among the lodgers were Mark Ivanovitch, an

intelligent and well-read man; then Oplevaniev; then Prepolovenko, also

a nice and modest person; then there was a certain Zinovy Prokofyevitch,

whose object in life was to get into aristocratic society; then there

was Okeanov, the copying clerk, who had in his time almost wrested the

distinction of prime favourite from Semyon Ivanovitch; then another

copying clerk called Sudbin; the plebeian Kantarev; there were others

too. But to all these people Semyon Ivanovitch was, as it were, not one

of themselves. No one wished him harm, of course, for all had from the

very first done Prohartchin justice, and had decided in Mark

Ivanovitch's words that he, Prohartchin, was a good and harmless fellow,

though by no means a man of the world, trustworthy, and not a flatterer,

who had, of course, his failings; but that if he were sometimes unhappy

it was due to nothing else but lack of imagination. What is more, Mr.

Prohartchin, though deprived in this way of imagination, could never

have made a particularly favourable impression from his figure or

manners (upon which scoffers are fond of fastening), yet his figure did

not put people against him. Mark Ivanovitch, who was an intelligent

person, formally undertook Semyon Ivanovitch's defence, and declared in

rather happy and flowery language that Prohartchin was an elderly and

respectable man, who had long, long ago passed the age of romance. And

so, if Semyon Ivanovitch did not know how to get on with people, it must

have been entirely his own fault.

The first thing they noticed was the unmistakable parsimony and

niggardliness of Semyon Ivanovitch. That was at once observed and noted,

for Semyon Ivanovitch would never lend any one his teapot, even for a

moment; and that was the more unjust as he himself hardly ever drank

tea, but when he wanted anything drank, as a rule, rather a pleasant

decoction of wild flowers and certain medicinal herbs, of which he

always had a considerable store. His meals, too, were quite different

from the other lodgers'. He never, for instance, permitted himself to

partake of the whole dinner, provided daily by Ustinya Fyodorovna for

the other boarders. The dinner cost half a rouble; Semyon Ivanovitch

paid only twenty-five kopecks in copper, and never exceeded it, and so

took either a plate of soup with pie, or a plate of beef; most

frequently he ate neither soup nor beef, but he partook in moderation of

white bread with onion, curd, salted cucumber, or something similar,

which was a great deal cheaper, and he would only go back to his half

rouble dinner when he could stand it no longer....

Here the biographer confesses that nothing would have induced him to

allude to such realistic and low details, positively shocking and

offensive to some lovers of the heroic style, if it were not that these

details exhibit one peculiarity, one characteristic, in the hero of this

story; for Mr. Prohartchin was by no means so poor as to be unable to

have regular and sufficient meals, though he sometimes made out that he

was. But he acted as he did regardless of obloquy and people's

prejudices, simply to satisfy his strange whims, and from frugality and

excessive carefulness: all this, however, will be much clearer later on.

But we will beware of boring the reader with the description of all

Semyon Ivanovitch's whims, and will omit, for instance, the curious and

very amusing description of his attire; and, in fact, if it were not for

Ustinya Fyodorovna's own reference to it we should hardly have alluded

even to the fact that Semyon Ivanovitch never could make up his mind to

send his linen to the wash, or if he ever did so it was so rarely that

in the intervals one might have completely forgotten the existence of

linen on Semyon Ivanovitch. From the landlady's evidence it appeared

that "Semyon Ivanovitch, bless his soul, poor lamb, for twenty years had

been tucked away in his corner, without caring what folks thought, for

all the days of his life on earth he was a stranger to socks,

handkerchiefs, and all such things," and what is more, Ustinya

Fyodorovna had seen with her own eyes, thanks to the decrepitude of the

screen, that the poor dear man sometimes had had nothing to cover his

bare skin.

Such were the rumours in circulation after Semyon Ivanovitch's death.

But in his lifetime (and this was one of the most frequent occasions of

dissension) he could not endure it if any one, even somebody on friendly

terms with him, poked his inquisitive nose uninvited into his corner,

even through an aperture in the decrepit screen. He was a taciturn man

difficult to deal with and prone to ill health. He did not like people

to give him advice, he did not care for people who put themselves

forward either, and if any one jeered at him or gave him advice unasked,

he would fall foul of him at once, put him to shame, and settle his

business. "You are a puppy, you are a featherhead, you are not one to

give advice, so there--you mind your own business, sir. You'd better

count the stitches in your own socks, sir, so there!"

Semyon Ivanovitch was a plain man, and never used the formal mode of

address to any one. He could not bear it either when some one who knew

his little ways would begin from pure sport pestering him with

questions, such as what he had in his little trunk.... Semyon Ivanovitch

had one little trunk. It stood under his bed, and was guarded like the

apple of his eye; and though every one knew that there was nothing in it

except old rags, two or three pairs of damaged boots and all sorts of

rubbish, yet Mr. Prohartchin prized his property very highly, and they

used even to hear him at one time express dissatisfaction with his old,

but still sound, lock, and talk of getting a new one of a special German

pattern with a secret spring and various complications. When on one

occasion Zinovy Prokofyevitch, carried away by the thoughtlessness of

youth, gave expression to the very coarse and unseemly idea, that Semyon

Ivanovitch was probably hiding and treasuring something in his box to

leave to his descendants, every one who happened to be by was stupefied

at the extraordinary effects of Zinovy Prokofyevitch's sally. At first

Mr. Prohartchin could not find suitable terms for such a crude and

coarse idea. For a long time words dropped from his lips quite

incoherently, and it was only after a while they made out that Semyon

Ivanovitch was reproaching Zinovy Prokofyevitch for some shabby action

in the remote past; then they realized that Semyon Ivanovitch was

predicting that Zinovy Prokofyevitch would never get into aristocratic

society, and that the tailor to whom he owed a bill for his suits would

beat him--would certainly beat him--because the puppy had not paid him

for so long; and finally, "You puppy, you," Semyon Ivanovitch added,

"here you want to get into the hussars, but you won't, I tell you,

you'll make a fool of yourself. And I tell you what, you puppy, when

your superiors know all about it they will take and make you a copying

clerk; so that will be the end of it! Do you hear, puppy?" Then Semyon

Ivanovitch subsided, but after lying down for five hours, to the intense

astonishment of every one he seemed to have reached a decision, and

began suddenly reproaching and abusing the young man again, at first to

himself and afterwards addressing Zinovy Prokofyevitch. But the matter

did not end there, and in the evening, when Mark Ivanovitch and

Prepolovenko made tea and asked Okeanov to drink it with them, Semyon

Ivanovitch got up from his bed, purposely joined them, subscribing his

fifteen or twenty kopecks, and on the pretext of a sudden desire for a

cup of tea began at great length going into the subject, and explaining

that he was a poor man, nothing but a poor man, and that a poor man like

him had nothing to save. Mr. Prohartchin confessed that he was a poor

man on this occasion, he said, simply because the subject had come up;

that the day before yesterday he had meant to borrow a rouble from that

impudent fellow, but now he should not borrow it for fear the puppy

should brag, that that was the fact of the matter, and that his salary

was such that one could not buy enough to eat, and that finally, a poor

man, as you see, he sent his sister-in-law in Tver five roubles every

month, that if he did not send his sister-in-law in Tver five roubles

every month his sister-in-law would die, and if his sister-in-law, who

was dependent on him, were dead, he, Semyon Ivanovitch, would long ago

have bought himself a new suit.... And Semyon Ivanovitch went on talking

in this way at great length about being a poor man, about his

sister-in-law and about roubles, and kept repeating the same thing over

and over again to impress it on his audience till he got into a regular

muddle and relapsed into silence. Only three days later, when they had

all forgotten about him, and no one was thinking of attacking him, he

added something in conclusion to the effect that when Zinovy

Prokofyevitch went into the hussars the impudent fellow would have his

leg cut off in the war, and then he would come with a wooden leg and

say; "Semyon Ivanovitch, kind friend, give me something to eat!" and

then Semyon Ivanovitch would not give him something to eat, and would

not look at the insolent fellow; and that's how it would be, and he

could just make the best of it.

All this naturally seemed very curious and at the same time fearfully

amusing. Without much reflection, all the lodgers joined together for

further investigation, and simply from curiosity determined to make a

final onslaught on Semyon Ivanovitch _en masse_. And as Mr. Prohartchin,

too, had of late--that is, ever since he had begun living in the same

flat with them--been very fond of finding out everything about them and

asking inquisitive questions, probably for private reasons of his own,

relations sprang up between the opposed parties without any preparation

or effort on either side, as it were by chance and of itself. To get

into relations Semyon Ivanovitch always had in reserve his peculiar,

rather sly, and very ingenuous manoeuvre, of which the reader has

learned something already. He would get off his bed about tea-time, and

if he saw the others gathered together in a group to make tea he would

go up to them like a quiet, sensible, and friendly person, hand over his

twenty kopecks, as he was entitled to do, and announce that he wished to

join them. Then the young men would wink at one another, and so

indicating that they were in league together against Semyon Ivanovitch,

would begin a conversation, at first strictly proper and decorous. Then

one of the wittier of the party would, _à propos_ of nothing, fall to

telling them news consisting most usually of entirely false and quite

incredible details. He would say, for instance, that some one had heard

His Excellency that day telling Demid Vassilyevitch that in his opinion

married clerks were more trustworthy than unmarried, and more suitable

for promotion; for they were steady, and that their capacities were

considerably improved by marriage, and that therefore he--that is, the

speaker--in order to improve and be better fitted for promotion, was

doing his utmost to enter the bonds of matrimony as soon as possible

with a certain Fevronya Prokofyevna. Or he would say that it had more

than once been remarked about certain of his colleagues that they were

entirely devoid of social graces and of well-bred, agreeable manners,

and consequently unable to please ladies in good society, and that,

therefore, to eradicate this defect it would be suitable to deduct

something from their salary, and with the sum so obtained, to hire a

hall, where they could learn to dance, acquire the outward signs of

gentlemanliness and good-breeding, courtesy, respect for their seniors,

strength of will, a good and grateful heart and various agreeable

qualities. Or he would say that it was being arranged that some of the

clerks, beginning with the most elderly, were to be put through an

examination in all sorts of subjects to raise their standard of culture,

and in that way, the speaker would add, all sorts of things would come

to light, and certain gentlemen would have to lay their cards on the

table--in short, thousands of similar very absurd rumours were

discussed. To keep it up, every one believed the story at once, showed

interest in it, asked questions, applied it to themselves; and some of

them, assuming a despondent air, began shaking their heads and asking

every one's advice, saying what were they to do if they were to come

under it? It need hardly be said that a man far less credulous and

simple-hearted than Mr. Prohartchin would have been puzzled and carried

away by a rumour so unanimously believed. Moreover, from all

appearances, it might be safely concluded that Semyon Ivanovitch was

exceedingly stupid and slow to grasp any new unusual idea, and that when

he heard anything new, he had always first, as it were, to chew it over

and digest it, to find out the meaning, and struggling with it in

bewilderment, at last perhaps to overcome it, though even then in a

quite special manner peculiar to himself alone....

In this way curious and hitherto unexpected qualities began to show

themselves in Semyon Ivanovitch.... Talk and tittle-tattle followed, and

by devious ways it all reached the office at last, with additions. What

increased the sensation was the fact that Mr. Prohartchin, who had

looked almost exactly the same from time immemorial, suddenly, _à

propos_ of nothing, wore quite a different countenance. His face was

uneasy, his eyes were timid and had a scared and rather suspicious

expression. He took to walking softly, starting and listening, and to

put the finishing touch to his new characteristics developed a passion

for investigating the truth. He carried his love of truth at last to

such a pitch as to venture, on two occasions, to inquire of Demid

Vassilyevitch himself concerning the credibility of the strange rumours

that reached him daily by dozens, and if we say nothing here of the

consequence of the action of Semyon Ivanovitch, it is for no other

reason but a sensitive regard for his reputation. It was in this way

people came to consider him as misanthropic and regardless of the

proprieties. Then they began to discover that there was a great deal

that was fantastical about him, and in this they were not altogether

mistaken, for it was observed on more than one occasion that Semyon

Ivanovitch completely forgot himself, and sitting in his seat with his

mouth open and his pen in the air, as though frozen or petrified, looked

more like the shadow of a rational being than that rational being

itself. It sometimes happened that some innocently gaping gentleman, on

suddenly catching his straying, lustreless, questioning eyes, was scared

and all of a tremor, and at once inserted into some important document

either a smudge or some quite inappropriate word. The impropriety of

Semyon Ivanovitch's behaviour embarrassed and annoyed all really

well-bred people.... At last no one could feel any doubt of the

eccentricity of Semyon Ivanovitch's mind, when one fine morning the

rumour was all over the office that Mr. Prohartchin had actually

frightened Demid Vassilyevitch himself, for, meeting him in the

corridor, Semyon Ivanovitch had been so strange and peculiar that he had

forced his superior to beat a retreat.... The news of Semyon

Ivanovitch's behaviour reached him himself at last. Hearing of it he got

up at once, made his way carefully between the chairs and tables,

reached the entry, took down his overcoat with his own hand, put it on,

went out, and disappeared for an indefinite period. Whether he was led

into this by alarm or some other impulse we cannot say, but no trace was

seen of him for a time either at home or at the office....

We will not attribute Semyon Ivanovitch's fate simply to his

eccentricity, yet we must observe to the reader that our hero was a very

retiring man, unaccustomed to society, and had, until he made the

acquaintance of the new lodgers, lived in complete unbroken solitude,

and had been marked by his quietness and even a certain mysteriousness;

for he had spent all the time that he lodged at Peski lying on his bed

behind the screen, without talking or having any sort of relations with

any one. Both his old fellow-lodgers lived exactly as he did: they, too

were, somehow mysterious people and spent fifteen years lying behind

their screens. The happy, drowsy hours and days trailed by, one after

the other, in patriarchal stagnation, and as everything around them went

its way in the same happy fashion, neither Semyon Ivanovitch nor Ustinya

Fyodorovna could remember exactly when fate had brought them together.

"It may be ten years, it may be twenty, it may be even twenty-five

altogether," she would say at times to her new lodgers, "since he

settled with me, poor dear man, bless his heart!" And so it was very

natural that the hero of our story, being so unaccustomed to society was

disagreeably surprised when, a year before, he, a respectable and modest

man, had found himself, suddenly in the midst of a noisy and boisterous

crew, consisting of a dozen young fellows, his colleagues at the office,

and his new house-mates.

The disappearance of Semyon Ivanovitch made no little stir in the

lodgings. One thing was that he was the favourite; another, that his

passport, which had been in the landlady's keeping, appeared to have

been accidentally mislaid. Ustinya Fyodorovna raised a howl, as was her

invariable habit on all critical occasions. She spent two days in

abusing and upbraiding the lodgers. She wailed that they had chased away

her lodger like a chicken, and all those spiteful scoffers had been the

ruin of him; and on the third day she sent them all out to hunt for the

fugitive and at all costs to bring him back, dead or alive. Towards

evening Sudbin first came back with the news that traces had been

discovered, that he had himself seen the runaway in Tolkutchy Market and

other places, had followed and stood close to him, but had not dared to

speak to him; he had been near him in a crowd watching a house on fire

in Crooked Lane. Half an hour later Okeanov and Kantarev came in and

confirmed Sudbin's story, word for word; they, too, had stood near, had

followed him quite close, had stood not more than ten paces from him,

but they also had not ventured to speak to him, but both observed that

Semyon Ivanovitch was walking with a drunken cadger. The other lodgers

were all back and together at last, and after listening attentively they

made up their minds that Prohartchin could not be far off and would not

be long in returning; but they said that they had all known beforehand

that he was about with a drunken cadger. This drunken cadger was a

thoroughly bad lot, insolent and cringing, and it seemed evident that he

had got round Semyon Ivanovitch in some way. He had turned up just a

week before Semyon Ivanovitch's disappearance in company with Remnev,

had spent a little time in the flat telling them that he had suffered in

the cause of justice, that he had formerly been in the service in the

provinces, that an inspector had come down on them, that he and his

associates had somehow suffered in a good cause, that he had come to

Petersburg and fallen at the feet of Porfiry Grigoryevitch, that he had

been got, by interest, into a department; but through the cruel

persecution of fate he had been discharged from there too, and that

afterwards through reorganization the office itself had ceased to exist,

and that he had not been included in the new revised staff of clerks

owing as much to direct incapacity for official work as to capacity for

something else quite irrelevant--all this mixed up with his passion for

justice and of course the trickery of his enemies. After finishing his

story, in the course of which Mr. Zimoveykin more than once kissed his

sullen and unshaven friend Remnev, he bowed down to all in the room in

turn, not forgetting Avdotya the servant, called them all his

benefactors, and explained that he was an undeserving, troublesome,

mean, insolent and stupid man, and that good people must not be hard on

his pitiful plight and simplicity. After begging for their kind

protection Mr. Zimoveykin showed his livelier side, grew very cheerful,

kissed Ustinya Fyodorovna's hands, in spite of her modest protests that

her hand was coarse and not like a lady's; and towards evening promised

to show the company his talent in a remarkable character dance. But next

day his visit ended in a lamentable _dénouement_. Either because there

had been too much character in the character-dance, or because he had,

in Ustinya Fyodorovna's own words, somehow "insulted her and treated her

as no lady, though she was on friendly terms with Yaroslav Ilyitch

himself, and if she liked might long ago have been an officer's wife,"

Zimoveykin had to steer for home next day. He went away, came back

again, was again turned out with ignominy, then wormed his way into

Semyon Ivanovitch's good graces, robbed him incidentally of his new

breeches, and now it appeared he had led Semyon Ivanovitch astray.

As soon as the landlady knew that Semyon Ivanovitch was alive and well,

and that there was no need to hunt for his passport, she promptly left

off grieving and was pacified. Meanwhile some of the lodgers determined

to give the runaway a triumphal reception; they broke the bolt and moved

away the screen from Mr. Prohartchin's bed, rumpled up the bed a little,

took the famous box, put it at the foot of the bed; and on the bed laid

the sister-in-law, that is, a dummy made up of an old kerchief, a cap

and a mantle of the landlady's, such an exact counterfeit of a

sister-in-law that it might have been mistaken for one. Having finished

their work they waited for Semyon Ivanovitch to return, meaning to tell

him that his sister-in-law had arrived from the country and was there

behind his screen, poor thing! But they waited and waited.

Already, while they waited, Mark Ivanovitch had staked and lost half a

month's salary to Prepolovenko and Kantarev; already Okeanov's nose had

grown red and swollen playing "flips on the nose" and "three cards;"

already Avdotya the servant had almost had her sleep out and had twice

been on the point of getting up to fetch the wood and light the stove,

and Zinovy Prokofyevitch, who kept running out every minute to see

whether Semyon Ivanovitch were coming, was wet to the skin; but there

was no sign of any one yet--neither Semyon Ivanovitch nor the drunken

cadger. At last every one went to bed, leaving the sister-in-law behind

the screen in readiness for any emergency; and it was not till four

o'clock that a knock was heard at the gate, but when it did come it was

so loud that it quite made up to the expectant lodgers for all the

wearisome trouble they had been through. It was he--he himself--Semyon

Ivanovitch, Mr. Prohartchin, but in such a condition that they all cried

out in dismay, and no one thought about the sister-in-law. The lost man

was unconscious. He was brought in, or more correctly carried in, by a

sopping and tattered night-cabman. To the landlady's question where the

poor dear man had got so groggy, the cabman answered: "Why, he is not

drunk and has not had a drop, that I can tell you, for sure; but

seemingly a faintness has come over him, or some sort of a fit, or maybe

he's been knocked down by a blow."

They began examining him, propping the culprit against the stove to do

so more conveniently, and saw that it really was not a case of

drunkenness, nor had he had a blow, but that something else was wrong,

for Semyon Ivanovitch could not utter a word, but seemed twitching in a

sort of convulsion, and only blinked, fixing his eyes in bewilderment

first on one and then on another of the spectators, who were all attired

in night array. Then they began questioning the cabman, asking where he

had got him from. "Why, from folks out Kolomna way," he answered. "Deuce

knows what they are, not exactly gentry, but merry, rollicking

gentlemen; so he was like this when they gave him to me; whether they

had been fighting, or whether he was in some sort of a fit, goodness

knows what it was; but they were nice, jolly gentlemen!"

Semyon Ivanovitch was taken, lifted high on the shoulders of two or

three sturdy fellows, and carried to his bed. When Semyon Ivanovitch on

being put in bed felt the sister-in-law, and put his feet on his sacred

box, he cried out at the top of his voice, squatted up almost on his

heels, and trembling and shaking all over, with his hands and his body

he cleared a space as far as he could in his bed, while gazing with a

tremulous but strangely resolute look at those present, he seemed as it

were to protest that he would sooner die than give up the hundredth part

of his poor belongings to any one....

Semyon Ivanovitch lay for two or three days closely barricaded by the

screen, and so cut off from all the world and all its vain anxieties.

Next morning, of course, every one had forgotten about him; time,

meanwhile, flew by as usual, hour followed hour and day followed day.

The sick man's heavy, feverish brain was plunged in something between

sleep and delirium; but he lay quietly and did not moan or complain; on

the contrary he kept still and silent and controlled himself, lying low

in his bed, just as the hare lies close to the earth when it hears the

hunter. At times a long depressing stillness prevailed in the flat, a

sign that the lodgers had all gone to the office, and Semyon Ivanovitch,

waking up, could relieve his depression by listening to the bustle in

the kitchen, where the landlady was busy close by; or to the regular

flop of Avdotya's down-trodden slippers as, sighing and moaning, she

cleared away, rubbed and polished, tidying all the rooms in the flat.

Whole hours passed by in that way, drowsy, languid, sleepy, wearisome,

like the water that dripped with a regular sound from the locker into

the basin in the kitchen. At last the lodgers would arrive, one by one

or in groups, and Semyon Ivanovitch could very conveniently hear them

abusing the weather, saying they were hungry, making a noise, smoking,

quarrelling, and making friends, playing cards, and clattering the cups

as they got ready for tea. Semyon Ivanovitch mechanically made an effort

to get up and join them, as he had a right to do at tea; but he at once

sank back into drowsiness, and dreamed that he had been sitting a long

time at the tea-table, having tea with them and talking, and that Zinovy

Prokofyevitch had already seized the opportunity to introduce into the

conversation some scheme concerning sisters-in-law and the moral

relation of various worthy people to them. At this point Semyon

Ivanovitch was in haste to defend himself and reply. But the mighty

formula that flew from every tongue--"It has more than once been

observed"--cut short all his objections, and Semyon Ivanovitch could do

nothing better than begin dreaming again that to-day was the first of

the month and that he was receiving money in his office.

Undoing the paper round it on the stairs, he looked about him quickly,

and made haste as fast as he could to subtract half of the lawful wages

he had received and conceal it in his boot. Then on the spot, on the

stairs, quite regardless of the fact that he was in bed and asleep, he

made up his mind when he reached home to give his landlady what was due

for board and lodging; then to buy certain necessities, and to show any

one it might concern, as it were casually and unintentionally, that some

of his salary had been deducted, that now he had nothing left to send

his sister-in-law; then to speak with commiseration of his

sister-in-law, to say a great deal about her the next day and the day

after, and ten days later to say something casually again about her

poverty, that his companions might not forget. Making this determination

he observed that Andrey Efimovitch, that everlastingly silent, bald

little man who sat in the office three rooms from where Semyon

Ivanovitch sat, and hadn't said a word to him for twenty years, was

standing on the stairs, that he, too, was counting his silver roubles,

and shaking his head, he said to him: "Money!" "If there's no money

there will be no porridge," he added grimly as he went down the stairs,

and just at the door he ended: "And I have seven children, sir." Then

the little bald man, probably equally unconscious that he was acting as

a phantom and not as a substantial reality, held up his hand about

thirty inches from the floor, and waving it vertically, muttered that

the eldest was going to school, then glancing with indignation at Semyon

Ivanovitch, as though it were Mr. Prohartchin's fault that he was the

father of seven, pulled his old hat down over his eyes, and with a whisk

of his overcoat he turned to the left and disappeared. Semyon Ivanovitch

was quite frightened, and though he was fully convinced of his own

innocence in regard to the unpleasant accumulation of seven under one

roof, yet it seemed to appear that in fact no one else was to blame but

Semyon Ivanovitch. Panic-stricken he set off running, for it seemed to

him that the bald gentleman had turned back, was running after him, and

meant to search him and take away all his salary, insisting upon the

indisputable number seven, and resolutely denying any possible claim of

any sort of sisters-in-law upon Semyon Ivanovitch. Prohartchin ran and

ran, gasping for breath.... Beside him was running, too, an immense

number of people, and all of them were jingling their money in the

tailpockets of their skimpy little dress-coats; at last every one ran

up, there was the noise of fire engines, and whole masses of people

carried him almost on their shoulders up to that same house on fire

which he had watched last time in company with the drunken cadger. The

drunken cadger--alias Mr. Zimoveykin--was there now, too, he met Semyon

Ivanovitch, made a fearful fuss, took him by the arm, and led him into

the thickest part of the crowd. Just as then in reality, all about them

was the noise and uproar of an immense crowd of people, flooding the

whole of Fontanka Embankment between the two bridges, as well as all the

surrounding streets and alleys; just as then, Semyon Ivanovitch, in

company with the drunken cadger, was carried along behind a fence, where

they were squeezed as though in pincers in a huge timber-yard full of

spectators who had gathered from the street, from Tolkutchy Market and

from all the surrounding houses, taverns, and restaurants. Semyon

Ivanovitch saw all this and felt as he had done at the time; in the

whirl of fever and delirium all sorts of strange figures began flitting

before him. He remembered some of them. One of them was a gentleman who

had impressed every one extremely, a man seven feet high, with whiskers

half a yard long, who had been standing behind Semyon Ivanovitch's back

during the fire, and had given him encouragement from behind, when our

hero had felt something like ecstasy and had stamped as though intending

thereby to applaud the gallant work of the firemen, from which he had an

excellent view from his elevated position. Another was the sturdy lad

from whom our hero had received a shove by way of a lift on to another

fence, when he had been disposed to climb over it, possibly to save some

one. He had a glimpse, too, of the figure of the old man with a sickly

face, in an old wadded dressing-gown, tied round the waist, who had made

his appearance before the fire in a little shop buying sugar and tobacco

for his lodger, and who now, with a milk-can and a quart pot in his

hands, made his way through the crowd to the house in which his wife and

daughter were burning together with thirteen and a half roubles in the

corner under the bed. But most distinct of all was the poor, sinful

woman of whom he had dreamed more than once during his illness--she

stood before him now as she had done then, in wretched bark shoes and

rags, with a crutch and a wicker-basket on her back. She was shouting

more loudly than the firemen or the crowd, waving her crutch and her

arms, saying that her own children had turned her out and that she had

lost two coppers in consequence. The children and the coppers, the

coppers and the children, were mingled together in an utterly

incomprehensible muddle, from which every one withdrew baffled, after

vain efforts to understand. But the woman would not desist, she kept

wailing, shouting, and waving her arms, seeming to pay no attention

either to the fire up to which she had been carried by the crowd from

the street or to the people about her, or to the misfortune of

strangers, or even to the sparks and red-hot embers which were beginning

to fall in showers on the crowd standing near. At last Mr. Prohartchin

felt that a feeling of terror was coming upon him; for he saw clearly

that all this was not, so to say, an accident, and that he would not get

off scot-free. And, indeed, upon the woodstack, close to him, was a

peasant, in a torn smock that hung loose about him, with his hair and

beard singed, and he began stirring up all the people against Semyon

Ivanovitch. The crowd pressed closer and closer, the peasant shouted,

and foaming at the mouth with horror, Mr. Prohartchin suddenly realized

that this peasant was a cabman whom he had cheated five years before in

the most inhuman way, slipping away from him without paying through a

side gate and jerking up his heels as he ran as though he were barefoot

on hot bricks. In despair Mr. Prohartchin tried to speak, to scream, but

his voice failed him. He felt that the infuriated crowd was twining

round him like a many-coloured snake, strangling him, crushing him. He

made an incredible effort and awoke. Then he saw that he was on fire,

that all his corner was on fire, that his screen was on fire, that the

whole flat was on fire, together with Ustinya Fyodorovna and all her

lodgers, that his bed was burning, his pillow, his quilt, his box, and

last of all, his precious mattress. Semyon Ivanovitch jumped up,

clutched at the mattress and ran dragging it after him. But in the

landlady's room into which, regardless of decorum, our hero ran just as

he was, barefoot and in his shirt, he was seized, held tight, and

triumphantly carried back behind the screen, which meanwhile was not on

fire--it seemed that it was rather Semyon Ivanovitch's head that was on

fire--and was put back to bed. It was just as some tattered, unshaven,

ill-humoured organ-grinder puts away in his travelling box the Punch who

has been making an upset, drubbing all the other puppets, selling his

soul to the devil, and who at last ends his existence, till the next

performance, in the same box with the devil, the negroes, the Pierrot,

and Mademoiselle Katerina with her fortunate lover, the captain.

Immediately every one, old and young, surrounded Semyon Ivanovitch,

standing in a row round his bed and fastening eyes full of expectation

on the invalid. Meantime he had come to himself, but from shame or some

other feeling, began pulling up the quilt over him, apparently wishing

to hide himself under it from the attention of his sympathetic friends.

At last Mark Ivanovitch was the first to break silence, and as a

sensible man he began saying in a very friendly way that Semyon

Ivanovitch must keep calm, that it was too bad and a shame to be ill,

that only little children behaved like that, that he must get well and

go to the office. Mark Ivanovitch ended by a little joke, saying that no

regular salary had yet been fixed for invalids, and as he knew for a

fact that their grade would be very low in the service, to his thinking

anyway, their calling or condition did not promise great and substantial

advantages. In fact, it was evident that they were all taking genuine

interest in Semyon Ivanovitch's fate and were very sympathetic. But with

incomprehensible rudeness, Semyon Ivanovitch persisted in lying in bed

in silence, and obstinately pulling the quilt higher and higher over his

head. Mark Ivanovitch, however, would not be gainsaid, and restraining

his feelings, said something very honeyed to Semyon Ivanovitch again,

knowing that that was how he ought to treat a sick man. But Semyon

Ivanovitch would not feel this: on the contrary he muttered something

between his teeth with the most distrustful air, and suddenly began

glancing askance from right to left in a hostile way, as though he would

have reduced his sympathetic friends to ashes with his eyes. It was no

use letting it stop there. Mark Ivanovitch lost patience, and seeing

that the man was offended and completely exasperated, and had simply

made up his mind to be obstinate, told him straight out, without any

softening suavity, that it was time to get up, that it was no use lying

there, that shouting day and night about houses on fire, sisters-in-law,

drunken cadgers, locks, boxes and goodness knows what, was all stupid,

improper, and degrading, for if Semyon Ivanovitch did not want to sleep

himself he should not hinder other people, and please would he bear it

in mind.

This speech produced its effects, for Semyon Ivanovitch, turning

promptly to the orator, articulated firmly, though in a hoarse voice,

"You hold your tongue, puppy! You idle speaker, you foul-mouthed man! Do

you hear, young dandy? Are you a prince, eh? Do you understand what I

say?"

Hearing such insults, Mark Ivanovitch fired up, but realizing that he

had to deal with a sick man, magnanimously overcame his resentment and

tried to shame him out of his humour, but was cut short in that too; for

Semyon Ivanovitch observed at once that he would not allow people to

play with him for all that Mark Ivanovitch wrote poetry. Then followed a

silence of two minutes; at last recovering from his amazement Mark

Ivanovitch, plainly, clearly, in well-chosen language, but with

firmness, declared that Semyon Ivanovitch ought to understand that he

was among gentlemen, and "you ought to understand, sir, how to behave

with gentlemen."

Mark Ivanovitch could on occasion speak effectively and liked to impress

his hearers, but, probably from the habit of years of silence, Semyon

Ivanovitch talked and acted somewhat abruptly; and, moreover, when he

did on occasion begin a long sentence, as he got further into it every

word seemed to lead to another word, that other word to a third word,

that third to a fourth and so on, so that his mouth seemed brimming

over; he began stuttering, and the crowding words took to flying out in

picturesque disorder. That was why Semyon Ivanovitch, who was a sensible

man, sometimes talked terrible nonsense. "You are lying," he said now.

"You booby, you loose fellow! You'll come to want--you'll go begging,

you seditious fellow, you--you loafer. Take that, you poet!"

"Why, you are still raving, aren't you, Semyon Ivanovitch?"

"I tell you what," answered Semyon Ivanovitch, "fools rave, drunkards

rave, dogs rave, but a wise man acts sensibly. I tell you, you don't

know your own business, you loafer, you educated gentleman, you learned

book! Here, you'll get on fire and not notice your head's burning off.

What do you think of that?"

"Why ... you mean.... How do you mean, burn my head off, Semyon

Ivanovitch?"

Mark Ivanovitch said no more, for every one saw clearly that Semyon

Ivanovitch was not yet in his sober senses, but delirious.

But the landlady could not resist remarking at this point that the house

in Crooked Lane had been burnt owing to a bald wench; that there was a

bald-headed wench living there, that she had lighted a candle and set

fire to the lumber room; but nothing would happen in her place, and

everything would be all right in the flats.

"But look here, Semyon Ivanovitch," cried Zinovy Prokofyevitch, losing

patience and interrupting the landlady, "you old fogey, you old crock,

you silly fellow--are they making jokes with you now about your

sister-in-law or examinations in dancing? Is that it? Is that what you

think?"

"Now, I tell you what," answered our hero, sitting up in bed and making

a last effort in a paroxysm of fury with his sympathetic friends. "Who's

the fool? You are the fool, a dog is a fool, you joking gentleman. But I

am not going to make jokes to please you, sir; do you hear, puppy? I am

not your servant, sir."

Semyon Ivanovitch would have said something more, but he fell back in

bed helpless. His sympathetic friends were left gaping in perplexity,

for they understood now what was wrong with Semyon Ivanovitch and did

not know how to begin. Suddenly the kitchen door creaked and opened, and

the drunken cadger--alias Mr. Zimoveykin--timidly thrust in his head,

cautiously sniffing round the place as his habit was. It seemed as

though he had been expected, every one waved to him at once to come

quickly, and Zimoveykin, highly delighted, with the utmost readiness and

haste jostled his way to Semyon Ivanovitch's bedside.

It was evident that Zimoveykin had spent the whole night in vigil and in

great exertions of some sort. The right side of his face was plastered

up; his swollen eyelids were wet from his running eyes, his coat and all

his clothes were torn, while the whole left side of his attire was

bespattered with something extremely nasty, possibly mud from a puddle.

Under his arm was somebody's violin, which he had been taking somewhere

to sell. Apparently they had not made a mistake in summoning him to

their assistance, for seeing the position of affairs, he addressed the

delinquent at once, and with the air of a man who knows what he is about

and feels that he has the upper hand, said: "What are you thinking

about? Get up, Senka. What are you doing, a clever chap like you? Be

sensible, or I shall pull you out of bed if you are obstreperous. Don't

be obstreperous!"

This brief but forcible speech surprised them all; still more were they

surprised when they noticed that Semyon Ivanovitch, hearing all this and

seeing this person before him, was so flustered and reduced to such

confusion and dismay that he could scarcely mutter through his teeth in

a whisper the inevitable protest.

"Go away, you wretch," he said. "You are a wretched creature--you are a

thief! Do you hear? Do you understand? You are a great swell, my fine

gentleman, you regular swell."

"No, my boy," Zimoveykin answered emphatically, retaining all his

presence of mind, "you're wrong there, you wise fellow, you regular

Prohartchin," Zimoveykin went on, parodying Semyon Ivanovitch and

looking round gleefully. "Don't be obstreperous! Behave yourself, Senka,

behave yourself, or I'll give you away, I'll tell them all about it, my

lad, do you understand?"

Apparently Semyon Ivanovitch did understand, for he started when he

heard the conclusion of the speech, and began looking rapidly about him

with an utterly desperate air.

Satisfied with the effect, Mr. Zimoveykin would have continued, but Mark

Ivanovitch checked his zeal, and waiting till Semyon Ivanovitch was

still and almost calm again began judiciously impressing on the uneasy

invalid at great length that, "to harbour ideas such as he now had in

his head was, first, useless, and secondly, not only useless, but

harmful; and, in fact, not so much harmful as positively immoral; and

the cause of it all was that Semyon Ivanovitch was not only a bad

example, but led them all into temptation."

Every one expected satisfactory results from this speech. Moreover by

now Semyon Ivanovitch was quite quiet and replied in measured terms. A

quiet discussion followed. They appealed to him in a friendly way,

inquiring what he was so frightened of. Semyon Ivanovitch answered, but

his answers were irrelevant. They answered him, he answered them. There

were one or two more observations on both sides and then every one

rushed into discussion, for suddenly such a strange and amazing subject

cropped up, that they did not know how to express themselves. The

argument at last led to impatience, impatience led to shouting, and

shouting even to tears; and Mark Ivanovitch went away at last foaming at

the mouth and declaring that he had never known such a blockhead.

Oplevaniev spat in disgust, Okeanov was frightened, Zinovy Prokofyevitch

became tearful, while Ustinya Fyodorovna positively howled, wailing that

her lodger was leaving them and had gone off his head, that he would

die, poor dear man, without a passport and without telling any one,

while she was a lone, lorn woman and that she would be dragged from

pillar to post. In fact, they all saw clearly at last that the seed they

had sown had yielded a hundred-fold, that the soil had been too

productive, and that in their company, Semyon Ivanovitch had succeeded

in overstraining his wits completely and in the most irrevocable manner.

Every one subsided into silence, for though they saw that Semyon

Ivanovitch was frightened, the sympathetic friends were frightened too.

"What?" cried Mark Ivanovitch; "but what are you afraid of? What have

you gone off your head about? Who's thinking about you, my good sir?

Have you the right to be afraid? Who are you? What are you? Nothing,

sir. A round nought, sir, that is what you are. What are you making a

fuss about? A woman has been run over in the street, so are you going to

be run over? Some drunkard did not take care of his pocket, but is that

any reason why your coat-tails should be cut off? A house is burnt down,

so your head is to be burnt off, is it? Is that it, sir, is that it?"

"You ... you ... you stupid!" muttered Semyon Ivanovitch, "if your nose

were cut off you would eat it up with a bit of bread and not notice it."

"I may be a dandy," shouted Mark Ivanovitch, not listening; "I may be a

regular dandy, but I have not to pass an examination to get married--to

learn dancing; the ground is firm under me, sir. Why, my good man,

haven't you room enough? Is the floor giving way under your feet, or

what?"

"Well, they won't ask you, will they? They'll shut one up and that will

be the end of it?"

"The end of it? That's what's up? What's your idea now, eh?"

"Why, they kicked out the drunken cadger."

"Yes; but you see that was a drunkard, and you are a man, and so am I."

"Yes, I am a man. It's there all right one day and then it's gone."

"Gone! But what do you mean by it?"

"Why, the office! The off--off--ice!"

"Yes, you blessed man, but of course the office is wanted and

necessary."

"It is wanted, I tell you; it's wanted to-day and it's wanted to-morrow,

but the day after to-morrow it will not be wanted. You have heard what

happened?"

"Why, but they'll pay you your salary for the year, you doubting Thomas,

you man of little faith. They'll put you into another job on account of

your age."

"Salary? But what if I have spent my salary, if thieves come and take my

money? And I have a sister-in-law, do you hear? A sister-in-law! You

battering-ram...."

"A sister-in-law! You are a man...."

"Yes, I am; I am a man. But you are a well-read gentleman and a fool, do

you hear?--you battering-ram--you regular battering-ram! That's what you

are! I am not talking about your jokes; but there are jobs such that all

of a sudden they are done away with. And Demid--do you hear?--Demid

Vassilyevitch says that the post will be done away with...."

"Ah, bless you, with your Demid! You sinner, why, you know...."

"In a twinkling of an eye you'll be left without a post, then you'll

just have to make the best of it."

"Why, you are simply raving, or clean off your head! Tell us plainly,

what have you done? Own up if you have done something wrong! It's no use

being ashamed! Are you off your head, my good man, eh?"

"He's off his head! He's gone off his head!" they all cried, and wrung

their hands in despair, while the landlady threw both her arms round

Mark Ivanovitch for fear he should tear Semyon Ivanovitch to pieces.

"You heathen, you heathenish soul, you wise man!" Zimoveykin besought

him. "Senka, you are not a man to take offence, you are a polite,

prepossessing man. You are simple, you are good ... do you hear? It all

comes from your goodness. Here I am a ruffian and a fool, I am a beggar;

but good people haven't abandoned me, no fear; you see they treat me

with respect, I thank them and the landlady. Here, you see, I bow down

to the ground to them; here, see, see, I am paying what is due to you,

landlady!" At this point Zimoveykin swung off with pedantic dignity a

low bow right down to the ground.

After that Semyon Ivanovitch would have gone on talking; but this time

they would not let him, they all intervened, began entreating him,

assuring him, comforting him, and succeeded in making Semyon Ivanovitch

thoroughly ashamed of himself, and at last, in a faint voice, he asked

leave to explain himself.

"Very well, then," he said, "I am prepossessing, I am quiet, I am good,

faithful and devoted; to the last drop of my blood you know ... do you

hear, you puppy, you swell? ... granted the job is going on, but you see

I am poor. And what if they take it? do you hear, you swell? Hold your

tongue and try to understand! They'll take it and that's all about it

... it's going on, brother, and then not going on ... do you understand?

And I shall go begging my bread, do you hear?"

"Senka," Zimoveykin bawled frantically, drowning the general hubbub with

his voice. "You are seditious! I'll inform against you! What are you

saying? Who are you? Are you a rebel, you sheep's head? A rowdy, stupid

man they would turn off without a character. But what are you?"

"Well, that's just it."

"What?"

"Well, there it is."

"How do you mean?"

"Why, I am free, he's free, and here one lies and thinks...."

"What?"

"What if they say I'm seditious?"

"Se--di--tious? Senka, you seditious!"

"Stay," cried Mr. Prohartchin, waving his hand and interrupting the

rising uproar, "that's not what I mean. Try to understand, only try to

understand, you sheep. I am law-abiding. I am law-abiding to-day, I am

law-abiding to-morrow, and then all of a sudden they kick me out and

call me seditious."

"What are you saying?" Mark Ivanovitch thundered at last, jumping up

from the chair on which he had sat down to rest, running up to the bed

and in a frenzy shaking with vexation and fury. "What do you mean? You

sheep! You've nothing to call your own. Why, are you the only person in

the world? Was the world made for you, do you suppose? Are you a

Napoleon? What are you? Who are you? Are you a Napoleon, eh? Tell me,

are you a Napoleon?"

But Mr. Prohartchin did not answer this question. Not because he was

overcome with shame at being a Napoleon, and was afraid of taking upon

himself such a responsibility--no, he was incapable of disputing

further, or saying anything.... His illness had reached a crisis. Tiny

teardrops gushed suddenly from his glittering, feverish, grey eyes. He

hid his burning head in his bony hands that were wasted by illness, sat

up in bed, and sobbing, began to say that he was quite poor, that he was

a simple, unlucky man, that he was foolish and unlearned, he begged kind

folks to forgive him, to take care of him, to protect him, to give him

food and drink, not to leave him in want, and goodness knows what else

Semyon Ivanovitch said. As he uttered this appeal he looked about him in

wild terror, as though he were expecting the ceiling to fall or the

floor to give way. Every one felt his heart soften and move to pity as

he looked at the poor fellow. The landlady, sobbing and wailing like a

peasant woman at her forlorn condition, laid the invalid back in bed

with her own hands. Mark Ivanovitch, seeing the uselessness of touching

upon the memory of Napoleon, instantly relapsed into kindliness and came

to her assistance. The others, in order to do something, suggested

raspberry tea, saying that it always did good at once and that the

invalid would like it very much; but Zimoveykin contradicted them all,

saying there was nothing better than a good dose of camomile or

something of the sort. As for Zinovy Prokofyevitch, having a good heart,

he sobbed and shed tears in his remorse, for having frightened Semyon

Ivanovitch with all sorts of absurdities, and gathering from the

invalid's last words that he was quite poor and needing assistance, he

proceeded to get up a subscription for him, confining it for a time to

the tenants of the flat. Every one was sighing and moaning, every one

felt sorry and grieved, and yet all wondered how it was a man could be

so completely panic-stricken. And what was he frightened about? It would

have been all very well if he had had a good post, had had a wife, a lot

of children; it would have been excusable if he were being hauled up

before the court on some charge or other; but he was a man utterly

insignificant, with nothing but a trunk and a German lock; he had been

lying more than twenty years behind his screen, saying nothing, knowing

nothing of the world nor of trouble, saving his half-pence, and now at a

frivolous, idle word the man had actually gone off his head, was utterly

panic-stricken at the thought he might have a hard time of it.... And it

never occurred to him that every one has a hard time of it! "If he would

only take that into consideration," Okeanov said afterwards, "that we

all have a hard time, then the man would have kept his head, would have

given up his antics and would have put up with things, one way or

another."

All day long nothing was talked of but Semyon Ivanovitch. They went up

to him, inquired after him, tried to comfort him; but by the evening he

was beyond that. The poor fellow began to be delirious, feverish. He

sank into unconsciousness, so that they almost thought of sending for a

doctor; the lodgers all agreed together and undertook to watch over

Semyon Ivanovitch and soothe him by turns through the night, and if

anything happened to wake all the rest immediately. With the object of

keeping awake, they sat down to cards, setting beside the invalid his

friend, the drunken cadger, who had spent the whole day in the flat and

had asked leave to stay the night. As the game was played on credit and

was not at all interesting they soon got bored. They gave up the game,

then got into an argument about something, then began to be loud and

noisy, finally dispersed to their various corners, went on for a long

time angrily shouting and wrangling, and as all of them felt suddenly

ill-humoured they no longer cared to sit up, so went to sleep. Soon it

was as still in the flat as in an empty cellar, and it was the more like

one because it was horribly cold. The last to fall asleep was Okeanov.

"And it was between sleeping and waking," as he said afterwards, "I

fancied just before morning two men kept talking close by me." Okeanov

said that he recognized Zimoveykin, and that Zimoveykin began waking his

old friend Remnev just beside him, that they talked for a long time in a

whisper; then Zimoveykin went away and could be heard trying to unlock

the door into the kitchen. The key, the landlady declared afterwards,

was lying under her pillow and was lost that night. Finally--Okeanov

testified--he had fancied he had heard them go behind the screen to the

invalid and light a candle there, "and I know nothing more," he said, "I

fell asleep, and woke up," as everybody else did, when every one in the

flat jumped out of bed at the sound behind the screen of a shriek that

would have roused the dead, and it seemed to many of them that a candle

went out at that moment. A great hubbub arose, every one's heart stood

still; they rushed pell-mell at the shriek, but at that moment there was

a scuffle, with shouting, swearing, and fighting. They struck a light

and saw that Zimoveykin and Remnev were fighting together, that they

were swearing and abusing one another, and as they turned the light on

them, one of them shouted: "It's not me, it's this ruffian," and the

other who was Zimoveykin, was shouting: "Don't touch me, I've done

nothing! I'll take my oath any minute!" Both of them looked hardly like

human beings; but for the first minute they had no attention to spare

for them; the invalid was not where he had been behind the screen. They

immediately parted the combatants and dragged them away, and saw that

Mr. Prohartchin was lying under the bed; he must, while completely

unconscious, have dragged the quilt and pillow after him so that there

was nothing left on the bedstead but the bare mattress, old and greasy

(he never had sheets). They pulled Semyon Ivanovitch out, stretched him

on the mattress, but soon realized that there was no need to make

trouble over him, that he was completely done for; his arms were stiff,

and he seemed all to pieces. They stood over him, he still faintly

shuddered and trembled all over, made an effort to do something with his

arms, could not utter a word, but blinked his eyes as they say heads do

when still warm and bleeding, after being just chopped off by the

executioner.

At last the body grew more and more still; the last faint convulsions

died away. Mr. Prohartchin had set off with his good deeds and his sins.

Whether Semyon Ivanovitch had been frightened by something, whether he

had had a dream, as Remnev maintained afterwards, or there had been some

other mischief--nobody knew; all that can be said is, that if the head

clerk had made his appearance at that moment in the flat and had

announced that Semyon Ivanovitch was dismissed for sedition,

insubordination, and drunkenness; if some old draggle-tailed beggar

woman had come in at the door, calling herself Semyon Ivanovitch's

sister-in-law; or if Semyon Ivanovitch had just received two hundred

roubles as a reward; or if the house had caught fire and Semyon

Ivanovitch's head had been really burning--he would in all probability

not have deigned to stir a finger in any of these eventualities. While

the first stupefaction was passing over, while all present were

regaining their powers of speech, were working themselves up into a

fever of excitement, shouting and flying to conjectures and

suppositions; while Ustinya Fyodorovna was pulling the box from under

his bed, was rummaging in a fluster under the mattress and even in

Semyon Ivanovitch's boots; while they cross-questioned Remnev and

Zimoveykin, Okeanov, who had hitherto been the quietest, humblest, and

least original of the lodgers, suddenly plucked up all his presence of

mind and displayed all his latent talents, by taking up his hat and

under cover of the general uproar slipping out of the flat. And just

when the horrors of disorder and anarchy had reached their height in the

agitated flat, till then so tranquil, the door opened and suddenly there

descended upon them, like snow upon their heads, a personage of

gentlemanly appearance, with a severe and displeased-looking face,

behind him Yaroslav Ilyitch, behind Yaroslav Ilyitch his subordinates

and the functionaries whose duty it is to be present on such occasions,

and behind them all, much embarrassed, Mr. Okeanov. The severe-looking

personage of gentlemanly appearance went straight up to Semyon

Ivanovitch, examined him, made a wry face, shrugged his shoulders and

announced what everybody knew, that is, that the dead man was dead, only

adding that the same thing had happened a day or two ago to a gentleman

of consequence, highly respected, who had died suddenly in his sleep.

Then the personage of gentlemanly, but displeased-looking, appearance

walked away saying that they had troubled him for nothing, and took

himself off. His place was at once filled (while Remnev and Zimoveykin

were handed over to the custody of the proper functionaries), by

Yaroslav Ilyitch, who questioned some one, adroitly took possession of

the box, which the landlady was already trying to open, put the boots

back in their proper place, observing that they were all in holes and no

use, asked for the pillow to be put back, called up Okeanov, asked for

the key of the box which was found in the pocket of the drunken cadger,

and solemnly, in the presence of the proper officials, unlocked Semyon

Ivanovitch's property. Everything was displayed: two rags, a pair of

socks, half a handkerchief, an old hat, several buttons, some old soles,

and the uppers of a pair of boots, that is, all sorts of odds and ends,

scraps, rubbish, trash, which had a stale smell. The only thing of any

value was the German lock. They called up Okeanov and cross-questioned

him sternly; but Okeanov was ready to take his oath. They asked for the

pillow, they examined it; it was extremely dirty, but in other respects

it was like all other pillows. They attacked the mattress, they were

about to lift it up, but stopped for a moment's consideration, when

suddenly and quite unexpectedly something heavy fell with a clink on the

floor. They bent down and saw on the floor a screw of paper and in the

screw some dozen roubles. "A-hey!" said Yaroslav Ilyitch, pointing to a

slit in the mattress from which hair and stuffing were sticking out.

They examined the slit and found that it had only just been made with a

knife and was half a yard in length; they thrust hands into the gap and

pulled out a kitchen knife, probably hurriedly thrust in there after

slitting the mattress. Before Yaroslav Ilyitch had time to pull the

knife out of the slit and to say "A-hey!" again, another screw of money

fell out, and after it, one at a time, two half roubles, a quarter

rouble, then some small change, and an old-fashioned, solid five-kopeck

piece--all this was seized upon. At this point it was realized that it

would not be amiss to cut up the whole mattress with scissors. They

asked for scissors.

Meanwhile, the guttering candle lighted up a scene that would have been

extremely curious to a spectator. About a dozen lodgers were grouped

round the bed in the most picturesque costumes, all unbrushed, unshaven,

unwashed, sleepy-looking, just as they had gone to bed. Some were quite

pale, while others had drops of sweat upon their brows: some were

shuddering, while others looked feverish. The landlady, utterly

stupefied, was standing quietly with her hands folded waiting for

Yaroslav Ilyitch's good pleasure. From the stove above, the heads of

Avdotya, the servant, and the landlady's favourite cat looked down with

frightened curiosity. The torn and broken screen lay cast on the floor,

the open box displayed its uninviting contents, the quilt and pillow lay

tossed at random, covered with fluff from the mattress, and on the

three-legged wooden table gleamed the steadily growing heap of silver

and other coins. Only Semyon Ivanovitch preserved his composure, lying

calmly on the bed and seeming to have no foreboding of his ruin. When

the scissors had been brought and Yaroslav Ilyitch's assistant, wishing

to be of service, shook the mattress rather impatiently to ease it from

under the back of its owner, Semyon Ivanovitch with his habitual

civility made room a little, rolling on his side with his back to the

searchers; then at a second shake he turned on his face, finally gave

way still further, and as the last slat in the bedstead was missing, he

suddenly and quite unexpectedly plunged head downward, leaving in view

only two bony, thin, blue legs, which stuck upwards like two branches of

a charred tree. As this was the second time that morning that Mr.

Prohartchin had poked his head under his bed it at once aroused

suspicion, and some of the lodgers, headed by Zinovy Prokofyevitch,

crept under it, with the intention of seeing whether there were

something hidden there too. But they knocked their heads together for

nothing, and as Yaroslav Ilyitch shouted to them, bidding them release

Semyon Ivanovitch at once from his unpleasant position, two of the more

sensible seized each a leg, dragged the unsuspected capitalist into the

light of day and laid him across the bed. Meanwhile the hair and flock

were flying about, the heap of silver grew--and, my goodness, what a lot

there was!... Noble silver roubles, stout solid rouble and a half

pieces, pretty half rouble coins, plebeian quarter roubles, twenty

kopeck pieces, even the unpromising old crone's small fry of ten and

five kopeck silver pieces--all done up in separate bits of paper in the

most methodical and systematic way; there were curiosities also, two

counters of some sort, one napoléon d'or, one very rare coin of some

unknown kind.... Some of the roubles were of the greatest antiquity,

they were rubbed and hacked coins of Elizabeth, German kreutzers, coins

of Peter, of Catherine; there were, for instance, old fifteen-kopeck

pieces, now very rare, pierced for wearing as earrings, all much worn,

yet with the requisite number of dots ... there was even copper, but all

of that was green and tarnished.... They found one red note, but no

more. At last, when the dissection was quite over and the mattress case

had been shaken more than once without a clink, they piled all the money

on the table and set to work to count it. At the first glance one might

well have been deceived and have estimated it at a million, it was such

an immense heap. But it was not a million, though it did turn out to be

a very considerable sum--exactly 2497 roubles and a half--so that if

Zinovy Prokofyevitch's subscription had been raised the day before there

would perhaps have been just 2500 roubles. They took the money, they put

a seal on the dead man's box, they listened to the landlady's

complaints, and informed her when and where she ought to lodge

information in regard to the dead man's little debt to her. A receipt

was taken from the proper person. At that point hints were dropped in

regard to the sister-in-law; but being persuaded that in a certain sense

the sister-in-law was a myth, that is, a product of the defective

imagination with which they had more than once reproached Semyon

Ivanovitch--they abandoned the idea as useless, mischievous and

disadvantageous to the good name of Mr. Prohartchin, and so the matter

ended.

When the first shock was over, when the lodgers had recovered themselves

and realized the sort of person their late companion had been, they all

subsided, relapsed into silence and began looking distrustfully at one

another. Some seemed to take Semyon Ivanovitch's behaviour very much to

heart, and even to feel affronted by it. What a fortune! So the man had

saved up like this! Not losing his composure, Mark Ivanovitch proceeded

to explain why Semyon Ivanovitch had been so suddenly panic-stricken;

but they did not listen to him. Zinovy Prokofyevitch was very

thoughtful, Okeanov had had a little to drink, the others seemed rather

crestfallen, while a little man called Kantarev, with a nose like a

sparrow's beak, left the flat that evening after very carefully packing

up and cording all his boxes and bags, and coldly explaining to the

curious that times were hard and that the terms here were beyond his

means. The landlady wailed without ceasing, lamenting for Semyon

Ivanovitch, and cursing him for having taken advantage of her lone, lorn

state. Mark Ivanovitch was asked why the dead man had not taken his

money to the bank. "He was too simple, my good soul, he hadn't enough

imagination," answered Mark Ivanovitch.

"Yes, and you have been too simple, too, my good woman," Okeanov put in.

"For twenty years the man kept himself close here in your flat, and here

he's been knocked down by a feather--while you went on cooking

cabbage-soup and had no time to notice it.... Ah-ah, my good woman!"

"Oh, the poor dear," the landlady went on, "what need of a bank! If he'd

brought me his pile and said to me: 'Take it, Ustinyushka, poor dear,

here is all I have, keep and board me in my helplessness, so long as I

am on earth,' then, by the holy ikon I would have fed him, I would have

given him drink, I would have looked after him. Ah, the sinner! ah, the

deceiver! He deceived me, he cheated me, a poor lone woman!"

They went up to the bed again. Semyon Ivanovitch was lying properly now,

dressed in his best, though, indeed, it was his only suit, hiding his

rigid chin behind a cravat which was tied rather awkwardly, washed,

brushed, but not quite shaven, because there was no razor in the flat;

the only one, which had belonged to Zinovy Prokofyevitch, had lost its

edge a year ago and had been very profitably sold at Tolkutchy Market;

the others used to go to the barber's.

They had not yet had time to clear up the disorder. The broken screen

lay as before, and exposing Semyon Ivanovitch's seclusion, seemed like

an emblem of the fact that death tears away the veil from all our

secrets, our shifty dodges and intrigues. The stuffing from the mattress

lay about in heaps. The whole room, suddenly so still, might well have

been compared by a poet to the ruined nest of a swallow, broken down and

torn to pieces by the storm, the nestlings and their mother killed, and

their warm little bed of fluff, feather and flock scattered about

them.... Semyon Ivanovitch, however, looked more like a conceited,

thievish old cock-sparrow. He kept quite quiet now, seemed to be lying

low, as though he were not guilty, as though he had had nothing to do

with the shameless, conscienceless, and unseemly duping and deception of

all these good people. He did not heed now the sobs and wailing of his

bereaved and wounded landlady. On the contrary, like a wary, callous

capitalist, anxious not to waste a minute in idleness even in the

coffin, he seemed to be wrapped up in some speculative calculation.

There was a look of deep reflection in his face, while his lips were

drawn together with a significant air, of which Semyon Ivanovitch during

his lifetime had not been suspected of being capable. He seemed, as it

were, to have grown shrewder, his right eye was, as it were, slyly

screwed up. Semyon Ivanovitch seemed wanting to say something, to make

some very important communication and explanation and without loss of

time, because things were complicated and there was not a minute to

lose.... And it seemed as though they could hear him.

"What is it? Give over, do you hear, you stupid woman? Don't whine! Go

to bed and sleep it off, my good woman, do you hear? I am dead; there's

no need of a fuss now. What's the use of it, really? It's nice to lie

here.... Though I don't mean that, do you hear? You are a fine lady, you

are a regular fine lady. Understand that; here I am dead now, but look

here, what if--that is, perhaps it can't be so--but I say what if I'm

not dead, what if I get up, do you hear? What would happen then?"

PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY RICHARD CLAY & SONS, LIMITED,

BRUNSWICK ST., STAMFORD ST., S.E. 1, AND BUNGAY, SUFFOLK

NOVELS BY FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

Translated from the Russian by

CONSTANCE GARNETT.

THE BROTHERS KARAMAZOV

THE IDIOT

THE POSSESSED

CRIME AND PUNISHMENT

THE HOUSE OF THE DEAD

THE INSULTED AND INJURED

A RAW YOUTH

THE ETERNAL HUSBAND, etc.

THE GAMBLER, etc.

WHITE NIGHTS, etc.

AN HONEST THIEF, etc. (_shortly_)

THE FRIEND OF THE FAMILY (_in progress_)

NOVELS BY IVAN TURGENEV

Translated from the Russian by

CONSTANCE GARNETT.

RUDIN

A HOUSE OF GENTLEFOLK

ON THE EVE

FATHERS AND CHILDREN

SMOKE

VIRGIN SOIL (2 vols.)

A SPORTSMAN'S SKETCHES (2 vols.)

DREAM TALES AND PROSE POEMS

THE TORRENTS OF SPRING

A LEAR OF THE STEPPES, etc.

THE DIARY OF A SUPERFLUOUS MAN, etc.

A DESPERATE CHARACTER, etc.

THE JEW, etc.

NEW YORK

THE MACMILLAN COMPANY

Transcriber's Notes:

The list of novels translated by Constance Garnett was moved from front

of book to the end. Punctuation was standardized. Spaces were removed

from elipses when used to separate syllables within a word, e.g.,

sus...pic...ion. Archaic and non-standard spelling was retained, except

as noted below.

Changes to text:

'grandchlid' to 'grandchild' ... I tell you this, grandchild, ...

'terrestial' to 'terrestrial' ... whole terrestrial globe ...

'consciouness' to 'consciousness' ... to your consciousness ...

'gentlemen' to 'gentleman' ... I knew a gentleman who ...

'extraordinary' to 'extraordinarily' ... everything will be

extraordinarily rational ...

'freewill' to 'free will' for consistency with remaining text

... without free will and without ...

... so-called free will ...

'And' to 'Am' ... Am I a scoundrel?...

'too' to 'to' ... Where will the poor fellow be off to?...

'cried' to 'cries' ... I heard cries of bewilderment ...

'intrgiue' to 'intrigue' ... The intrigue was not such ...

Additions to text:

added missing 'to' ... if not to-day ...

added missing 'a' ... It was a waste of time ...