"Yes, that's it," said Terenti, avoiding his look. "I shall give two
hundred roubles to the monastery."
"O!"
"And a hundred to you."
"A hundred?" asked Ilya, suddenly, and at once he knew that in his
soul for a long time the hope had lived that his uncle would give him
not a hundred roubles, but a much bigger sum. He was angered against
himself that his heart could entertain so hateful, calculating, an
expectation, and against his uncle that the sum was so small. He got
up, straightened himself, and said, full of scorn and insolence:
"I'll have none of your stolen money, d'you understand."
The hunchback recoiled in fear and sank on his bed, pale and wretched,
his hair bristled, his mouth stood open, and he gazed at Ilya silently
with stupid terror in his eyes.
"Well, why do you look like that? I don't want your money."
"Christ!" Terenti groaned hoarsely. "Why not, my dear, why not? Ilusha,
you've been like a son to me." Then presently he went on in a whisper.
"It was just--for you--for fear of what should happen to you, that I
took the sin on my soul; take the money, take it, else the Lord won't
forgive me."
"So," cried Ilya, mockingly, "you'll go to your God with an account
book! Oh! you! did I ask you to steal old Jeremy's money; think what a
good man he was you robbed!"
"Ilusha, you didn't ask to be born, either," said the uncle, and
stretched out his hand to Ilya with an odd gesture. "No, take the
money, quietly, for Christ's sake, to save my soul; if I come back,
then you'll get it all, and meantime take this, my dear boy. God will
not forgive my sins, if you don't take the money!"
He was actually begging, his lips quivered, and in his eyes was an
expression of fear. Ilya looked at him and could not determine if his
uncle really distressed him or no.
"Well, all right, I'll take it," he said at last, and went straight
out of the room. He was sorry that he had yielded finally, he felt
degraded. What was a hundred roubles to him after all? What big thing
could he undertake with that? If his uncle had given him a thousand
roubles now instead of a hundred, then he would have been enabled to
change his dull uneasy life into a better, that should glide along in
peaceful solitude far from mankind.
How would it be to ask his uncle, just how much he had obtained from
the rag-picker's hoard? But this thought was too repugnant to him. Ever
since Ilya had made Olympiada's acquaintance the house of Filimonov
appeared to him dirtier and stuffier than ever. The dirt and the close
atmosphere roused in him a physical nausea, as though cold, slimy
hands were laid on his body. To-day this feeling was more painful than
usual, he could find no spot in the house to suit him, and, without any
definite motive, he climbed the stairs to Matiza's garret. As he went,
he felt as though this house would somehow, at some time or other, deal
him an unexpected terrible injury.
Busy with such thoughts he entered Matiza's room and saw her sitting
on a chair beside her bed. She cast a glance at him, warned him with a
finger, and whispered in a deep bass voice, like a far-off storm-wind:
"Sh! She's asleep."
Masha lay on the bed, huddled in a heap.
"What kind of a thing d'you call this?" Matiza whispered, and rolled
her big eyes angrily. "Thrash children to ribbons, do they, the cursed
villains! to lay hands on children! curse them! the scoundrels!"
Ilya stood by the stove and listened, while he gazed at the delicate
form of the cobbler's daughter, wrapped in a grey shawl.
"What's to become of the poor things?" rang in his head.
"D'you know that the blackguard struck Masha, too?" went on Matiza.
"Tore her hair, the cursed scoundrel, the old bar loafer! Beat his son,
and the girl, and he's going to turn them both out of doors, d'you know
that? Where are they to go, poor orphans? How----"
"Perhaps I can find her a place," said Ilya, thoughtfully, remembering
that Olympiada needed a housemaid.
"You!" whispered Matiza, reproachfully. "You come in always now as
if you were a fine gentleman. You get on and grow for yourself like
a young oak-tree, give no shadow and no acorns. You might have done
something for her long ago. Aren't you sorry for the child?"
"Wait a bit and don't jaw!" said Ilya, crossly. It was an excuse for
him to visit Olympiada at once, and he asked: "How old's Mashutka?"
"Fifteen! Why? What's her age got to do with it? She looks barely
twelve, she's so slender and delicate. Heaven knows, she's just a child
still. She's fit for nothing, nothing! What is to become of her? It
would be better if she never waked again till the last day."
A vague cloud of ideas filled Ilya's head when he left the garret.
An hour later he was standing before the door of Olympiada's house,
waiting to be admitted. He waited a long time in the cold, till at
last from behind the door a thin, peevish voice asked: "Who is there?"
"I----" answered Lunev, not very clear who was speaking. Olympiada's
servant, a plump, pock-marked person, had a loud harsh voice, and
always opened the door without question.
"Whom do you want?" asked the voice again.
"Is Olympiada Danilovna at home?"
The door opened suddenly, and a strong light fell on Ilya's face. The
lad fell back a step, half shut his eyes, and looked perplexedly at the
door, as though what he saw appeared an illusion. Before him, lamp in
hand, stood a little old man, in a wide heavy dressing-gown, the colour
of raspberries. His head was all but entirely bald, only a thin crown
of grey hair ran from one ear to the other, and on his chin a short
thin grey beard quivered uneasily. He looked at Ilya's face, and his
keen, piercing eyes blinked evilly, and his upper lip, with its scanty
hairs, twitched up and down. The lamp shook and trembled in his thin,
swarthy hand.
"Who are you, then? Well, come in. Who are you?"
Ilya understood. He felt the blood mount to his head and an untoward
feeling of disgust and wrath filled his heart. This was the rival who
shared with him the favours of the stately, beautiful lady!
"I am--a pedlar," he said, in a dull voice, as he crossed the
threshhold.
The old man winked at him with his left eye, and smiled. His eyes were
red with inflammation, without eyelashes, and instead of teeth, a
couple of yellow, pointed pegs showed in his mouth.
"Oh, ho! A pedlar, eh? What sort of a pedlar?" asked the old man, with
a cunning smile, and held the lamp up to illumine Ilya's face.
"I deal in all sorts of little things--scent and ribbons, and so on,"
said Ilya, and hung his head. A giddiness seized him and red spots
danced before his eyes.
"Oh, oh! Ribbons and scent. Yes, yes! Ribbons and laces to deck pretty
faces. But what do you want here, my young pedlar? Eh?"
"I want to see Olympiada Danilovna."
"Eh, to see her? What do you want of her, now?"
"I have to get some money for things she's had," Ilya brought out, with
difficulty.
He felt an incomprehensible fear of this horrible old man and hated
him. In his thin, soft voice and in his evil eyes lay something that
penetrated within Ilya's heart and took away his courage, and cast him
down.
"Money, eh? A little debt. All right, my lad."
Suddenly the old man took the lamp away from Ilya's face, put it down,
brought his yellow, withered face close to Ilya's ear, and asked him
softly, with another, cunning smile: "Where's the bill? Give me the
bill."
"What bill?" said Ilya, recoiling, frightened.
"Why, from your master. The bill for Olympiada Danilovna. You've got
it, I suppose? What? Give it here! I'll take it to her. Quick, be
quick!"
The old man moved nearer, while Ilya retreated towards the door. His
mouth was dry with fear.
"I have no bill," he said loudly in despair, feeling that something
terrible must happen the next moment.
The tall, stately figure of Olympiada appeared behind the old man.
Calmly, without the trembling of an eyelash, she looked at Ilya over
the head of the old man, and said in her measured way: "What is the
matter?"
"It's a pedlar, he says you owe him money; you've bought ribbons, eh?
and not paid for them? He! He! Well, here he is and wants his money."
He paced with short steps to and fro and blinked suspiciously first at
Olympiada, then at Ilya. With a commanding gesture, she waved him to
one side, put her hand in the pocket of her cloak, and said to Ilya in
a severe tone: "What is it? Could you not come another time?"
"Quite right," squeaked the old man. "Silly fool, isn't he?"
"Coming when he's least wanted--donkey!"
Ilya stood as though turned to stone.
"Don't scream so, Vassili Gavrilovitsch, it doesn't sound well," said
Olympiada, and turning to Ilya, "How much? three roubles forty kopecks
isn't it? here, take it!"
"And now clear out!" squeaked the old man again. "Allow me. I'll bolt
the door myself. I'll do it."
He drew his dressing-gown round him, opened the door, and cried:
"Now then, go along!"
Ilya stood in the frost before the closed door, and stared stupidly at
it. He could not yet decide if all that he had just seen were reality,
or a hateful dream. In one hand he held his cap, in the other the money
Olympiada had given him. He stood there so long that he felt the frost
round his head like a ring of ice, and his legs were stiff with cold.
Then he put on his cap, put the money in his pocket, tucked his hands
into the sleeves of his overcoat, drew in his shoulders, and went
slowly down the street with bowed head. His heart seemed ice and in his
head a couple of balls rolled here and there and knocked against his
temples. Before his eyes swam the dusky face of the old man, the yellow
skull illuminated by the cold lamp-light.
And the face of the old man smiled evilly, cunningly, triumphantly.