The next day Peredonov and Volodin went to see the Adamenko girl.
Volodin was in his best clothes; he put on his new, tight-fitting
frock-coat, a clean-laundered shirt and a brightly-coloured cravat.
He smeared his hair with pomade and scented himself--he was in fine
spirits.
Nadezhda Vassilyevna Adamenko lived with her brother in town in her own
red-brick house; she had an estate not far from town which she let on
lease. Two years before she had completed a course in the local college
and now she occupied herself in lying on a couch to read books of every
description and in coaching her brother, an eleven-year-old schoolboy,
who always protected himself against his sister's severities by saying:
"It was much better in Mamma's time--she used to put an umbrella in the
corner instead of me."
Nadezhda Vassilyevna's aunt lived with her. She was a characterless,
decrepit woman with no voice in the household affairs. Nadezhda
Vassilyevna chose her acquaintances with great care. Peredonov was very
seldom in her house and only his lack of real acquaintance with her
could have given birth to his idea of getting her to marry Volodin.
She was therefore extremely astonished at their unexpected visit, but
she received the uninvited guests quite graciously. She had to amuse
them, and it seemed to her that the most likely and pleasant method of
entertaining an instructor of the Russian language would be to talk
of educational conditions, school reform, the training of children,
literature, Symbolism and the Russian literary periodicals. She touched
upon all these themes, but received no response beyond enigmatic
remarks, which showed that these questions had no interest for her
guests.
She soon saw that only one subject was possible--town gossip. But
Nadezhda Vassilyevna nevertheless made one more attempt.
"Have you read the 'Man in the Case,' by Chekhov?" she asked. "It's a
clever piece of work, isn't it?"
As she turned with this question to Volodin he smiled pleasantly and
asked:
"Is that an essay or a novel?"
"It's a short story," exclaimed Nadezhda.
"Did you say it was by Mister Chekhov?" inquired Volodin.
"Yes, Chekhov," said Nadezhda and smiled.
"Where was it published?" asked Volodin curiously.
"In the 'Russkaya Misl,'" the young woman explained graciously.
"In what number?" continued Volodin.
"I can't quite remember. I think it was in one of the summer numbers,"
replied Nadezhda, still graciously but with some astonishment.
A schoolboy suddenly appeared from behind the door.
"It was published in the May number," he said, with his hand on the
door-knob, glancing at his sister and her guests with cheerful blue
eyes.
"You're too young to read novels!" growled Peredonov angrily. "You
ought to work instead of reading indecent stories."
Nadezhda Vassilyevna looked sternly at her brother.
"It is a nice thing to stand behind doors and listen," she remarked,
and lifting her hands crossed her little fingers at a right angle.
The boy made a wry face and disappeared. He went into his own room,
stood in the corner and gazed at the clock; two little fingers crossed
was a sign that he should stand in the corner for ten minutes. "No,"
he thought sadly, "it was much better when Mamma was alive. She only
put an umbrella in the corner."
Meanwhile in the drawing-room Volodin was promising his hostess that he
would certainly get the May number of the "Russkaya Misl," in order to
read Mister Chekhov's story. Peredonov listened with an expression of
unconcealed boredom on his face. At last he said:
"I haven't read it either. I don't read such nonsense. There's nothing
but stupidities in stories and novels." Nadezhda Vassilyevna smiled
amiably and said:
"You're very severe towards contemporary literature. But good books are
written even nowadays."
"I read all the good books long ago," announced Peredonov. "I don't
intend to begin to read what's being written now."
Volodin looked at Peredonov with respect. Nadezhda Vassilyevna sighed
lightly and--as there was nothing else for her to do--she began a
string of small-talk and gossip to the best of her ability. Although
she disliked such conversation she managed to keep it up with the
ease and buoyancy of a lively, well-trained girl. The guests became
animated. She was intolerably bored, but they thought that she was
particularly gracious and they put it down to the charm of Volodin's
personality.
Once in the street Peredonov congratulated Volodin upon his success.
Volodin laughed gleefully and skipped about. He had already forgotten
all the other girls who had rejected him.
"Don't kick up your heels like that," said Peredonov. "You're hopping
about like a young sheep! You'd better wait; you may have your nose
pulled again."
But he said this only in jest, and he fully believed in the success of
the match he had devised.
* * * * *
Grushina came to see Varvara almost every day. Varvara was at
Grushina's even oftener, so that they were scarcely ever parted from
each other. Varvara was agitated because Grushina delayed--she assured
Varvara that it was very difficult to copy the handwriting so that the
resemblance would be complete.
Peredonov still refrained from fixing a date for the wedding. Again he
demanded his inspector's post first. Recollecting how many girls were
ready to marry him, he more than once, as in the past winter, said to
Varvara threateningly:
"I'm going out to get married. I shall be back in the morning with a
wife and then out you go. This is your last night here!"
And having said this he would go--to play billiards. From there he
would sometimes return home, but more often he would go carousing in
some dirty hole with Routilov and Volodin. On such nights Varvara could
not sleep. That is why she suffered from headaches. It was not so bad
if he returned at one or two--then she could breathe freely. But if he
did not turn up till the morning then the day found Varvara quite ill.
At last Grushina had finished the letter and showed it to Varvara.
They examined it for a long time and compared it with the Princess's
letter of last year. Grushina assured her that the letter was so like
the other that the Princess herself would not recognise the forgery.
Although there was actually little resemblance, Varvara believed her.
She also realised that Peredonov would not remember the Princess's
unfamiliar handwriting so minutely that he would see it was a forgery.
"At last!" she said joyously. "I have waited and waited, and I'd almost
lost patience. But what shall I tell him about the envelope if he asks?"
"You can't very well forge an envelope; there's the post-mark," said
Grushina laughing as she looked at Varvara with her cunning unequal
eyes, one of them wider open than the other.
"What shall we do?"
"Varvara Dmitrievna darling, just tell him that you threw the envelope
into the fire. What's the good of an envelope?"
Varvara's hopes revived. She said:
"Once we're married, he won't keep me any longer on the run. I'll do
the sitting and he can do the running for me."
* * * * *
On Saturday after dinner Peredonov went to play billiards. His thoughts
were heavy and melancholy. He thought:
"It's awful to live among hostile and envious people. But what can one
do--they can't all be inspectors! That's the struggle for existence!"
At the corner of two streets he met the Officer of the gendarmerie--an
unpleasant meeting.
Lieutenant-Colonel Nikolai Vadimovitch Roubovsky, a medium-sized, stout
man with heavy eyebrows, cheerful grey eyes, and a limping gait which
made his spurs jingle unevenly and loudly, was a very amiable person
and was therefore popular in society. He knew all the people in town,
all their affairs and relations, and loved to hear gossip, but was
himself as discreet and silent as the grave, and caused no one any
unnecessary unpleasantness.
They stopped, greeted each other and entered into conversation.
Peredonov looked frowningly on each side and said cautiously:
"I hear that our Natasha is with you now. You mustn't believe anything
she tells you about me, because she's lying."
"I don't listen to servants' gossip," said Roubovsky with dignity.
"She's really a bad one," said Peredonov, paying no attention to
Roubovsky's remark; "her young man is a Pole; very likely she came to
you on purpose to get hold of some official secret."
"Please don't worry about that," said the Lieutenant-Colonel dryly. "I
haven't any plans of fortresses in my possession."
This introduction of fortresses perplexed Peredonov; it seemed to him
that Roubovsky was hinting at something--that he thought of imprisoning
Peredonov in a fortress.
"It's nothing to do with fortresses--it's a very different matter," he
muttered. "But all sorts of stupid things are being said about me, for
the most part from envy. Don't believe any of them. They're informing
against me in order to get suspicion away from themselves, but I can do
some informing myself."
Roubovsky was mystified.
"I assure you," he said, shrugging his shoulders and jingling his
spurs, "that no one has informed against you. It is obvious that
someone has been pulling your leg--people of course will talk nonsense
sometimes."
Peredonov was mistrustful. He thought that the Lieutenant-Colonel was
concealing something, and he suddenly felt a terrible apprehension.
Every time that Peredonov walked past Vershina's garden, Vershina would
stop him and with her bewitching gestures and words would lure him
into the garden. And he would enter, unwillingly yielding to her quiet
witchery. Perhaps she had a better chance of succeeding in her purpose
than the Routilovs--for was not Peredonov equally unrelated to them
all, and therefore why should he not marry Marta? But it was evident
that the morass into which Peredonov was sinking was so tenacious that
no magic could ever have got him out of it into another.
And now after this meeting with Roubovsky, as Peredonov was walking
past Vershina's, she, dressed in black as usual, enticed him in.
"Marta and Vladya are going home for the day," she said, looking
tenderly at Peredonov with her cinnamon-coloured eyes through the smoke
of her cigarette. "It wouldn't be a bad idea for you to spend the day
with them in the village. A workman had just come in a cart for them."
"There isn't enough room," said Peredonov morosely.
"I think you could manage it," said Vershina, "and even if you have to
squeeze in a little, it won't be a great hardship--you've only got six
versts to go."
Meanwhile Marta ran out of the house to ask Vershina something. The
excitement of getting off dissipated her usual languor and her face was
livelier and more cheerful. They both tried to persuade Peredonov to go.
"You'll manage quite comfortably," Vershina assured him; "you and Marta
can sit at the back, and Vladya and Ignaty in front. Look, there's the
cart in the yard now."
Peredonov followed them into the yard where the cart was standing.
Vladya was fussing about, putting various things in it. The cart was
quite a large one, but Peredonov morosely surveyed it and announced:
"I'm not going. There isn't enough room. There are four of us and those
things besides."
"Well, if you think it's going to be a tight squeeze," said Varshina,
"Vladya can go on foot."
"Of course," said Vladya, with a suppressed grin. "I'll start at once
and I'll get there before you."
Then Peredonov declared that the cart would jolt and that he did not
like jolts. They returned to the summer-house. Everything was ready,
but Ignaty was still in the kitchen eating slowly and solidly.
"How does Vladya get on with his lessons?" asked Marta.
She did not know what else to talk about with Peredonov, and Vershina
had more than once reproached her for not knowing how to entertain him.
"Badly," said Peredonov; "he's lazy and doesn't pay attention."
Vershina loved to grumble. She began to scold Vladya.
The boy flushed and smiled, and shrivelled into his clothes as if he
were cold, lifting one shoulder higher than the other, as his habit was.
"The year has only just begun," he said, "I've got plenty of time to
catch up."
"You ought to start from the very beginning," said Marta in a very
grown-up way, which slightly embarrassed her.
"Yes, he's always in mischief," said Peredonov. "Only yesterday, he was
running about with some of the others as if they were street boys. He's
impertinent too. Last Thursday he was quite cheeky to me."
Vladya suddenly flushed up with indignation, yet still smiled, and said:
"I wasn't impertinent. I only told the truth. The other copy-books had
five mistakes not marked, and all mine were marked. And I only got two
though mine was better than the boys who got three."
"And that wasn't the only time you were impertinent," persisted
Peredonov.
"I wasn't impertinent, I only said that I would tell the inspector,"
said Vladya heatedly.
"Vladya, you forget yourself!" said Vershina angrily; "instead of
apologising you're only repeating what you said."
Vladya suddenly remembered that he ought not to provoke Peredonov, as
he might marry Marta. He grew even redder and in his confusion shifted
his belt and said timidly:
"I'm sorry. I only meant to ask you to make the correction."
"Be quiet, please!" interrupted Vershina. "I can't stand such
wrangling--I really can't," she repeated, and her thin body trembled
almost imperceptibly. "You're being spoken to, so be silent," and
Vershina poured out on Vladya many reproachful words, puffing at her
cigarette and smiling her wry smile, as she usually did when she was
talking, no matter what the subject was.
"We shall have to tell your father, so that he can punish you," she
concluded.
"He needs birching," suggested Peredonov, and looked angrily at the
offending Vladya.
"Certainly," agreed Vershina. "He needs birching."
"He needs birching," repeated Marta and blushed.
"I'm going with you to your father to-day," said Peredonov, "and I'll
see that he gives you a good birching."
Vladya looked silently at his tormentors, shrank within himself and
smiled through his tears. His father was a harsh man. Vladya tried to
console himself with the thought that these were only threats. Surely,
he thought, they would not really spoil his holiday. For a holiday was
a specially happy occasion and not a schoolday affair.
But Peredonov was always pleased when he saw boys cry, especially when
he so arranged it that they cried and apologised at the same time.
Vladya's confusion, the suppressed tears in his eyes and his timid,
guilty smile, all these gave Peredonov joy. He decided to accompany
Marta and Vladya.
"Very well, I'll come with you," he said to Marta.
Marta was glad but a little frightened. Of course she wanted Peredonov
to go with them, or it would perhaps be more truthful to say that
Vershina wanted it for her, and had instilled the desire into her by
suggestion. But now that Peredonov said that he would come, Marta
somehow felt uneasy on Vladya's account--she felt sorry for him.
Vladya also became sad. Surely Peredonov was not going on his account?
In the hope of appeasing Peredonov, he said:
"If you think, Ardalyon Borisitch, that it will be a tight squeeze,
then I will go on foot."
Peredonov looked at him suspiciously and said:
"That's all very well, but if I let you go alone, you'll run away
somewhere. No, I think we had better take you to your father and he'll
give you what you deserve!"
Vladya flushed once more and sighed. He began to feel uneasy and
depressed, and indignant at this cruel, morose man. To soften
Peredonov's heart, he decided to make his seat more comfortable.
"I'll make it so that you won't feel the jolts," he said.
And he scurried hastily towards the cart. Vershina looked after him,
still smoking, with her wry smile, and said quietly to Peredonov:
"They're all afraid of their father. He's very stern with them."
Marta flushed.
Vladya wanted to take with him to the village his new English
fishing-rod, bought with his saved-up money. And he wanted to take
something else. But this would have occupied room in the cart and so
Vladya carried all his goods back into the house.
The weather was moderate, the sun was beginning to decline. The road,
wet with the morning rain, was free of dust. The cart rolled evenly
over the fine stones, carrying its four passengers from the town; the
well-fed grey cob trotted along as if their weight were nothing, and
the lazy, taciturn driver, Ignaty, drove the cob on a light rein.
Peredonov was seated beside Marta. They had made him a wide seat, so
that Marta's was very uncomfortable. But he did not notice this. And
even if he had noticed it, he would have thought it quite proper, since
he was the guest.
Peredonov felt on very good terms with himself. He decided to talk very
amiably to Marta, to joke with her and to entertain her. This is how he
began:
"Well, are you going to rebel soon?"
"Why rebel?" asked Marta.
"You Poles are always getting ready to rebel--but it's useless."
"I'm not thinking about it at all," said Marta, "and there's no one
among us who wants to rebel."
"Oh, you only say that--you really hate the Russians."
"We haven't any such idea," said Vladya, turning to Peredonov from the
front seat.
"Yes, we know what sort of an idea you have about it," answered
Peredonov. "But we're not going to give Poland back to you. We have
conquered you. We have conferred many benefits on you and yet it's true
that however well you feed a wolf he always looks towards the wood."
Marta said nothing.
After a short silence Peredonov said abruptly:
"The Poles have no brains."
Marta flushed.
"There are all kinds of people among both Russians and Poles," she said.
"No, what I say is true," persisted Peredonov, "the Poles are stupid.
They only submit to force. Take the Jews--they're clever."
"The Jews are cheats--they're not clever at all," said Vladya.
"No, the Jews are a very clever people. The Jew always gets the best of
a Russian, but a Russian never gets the best of a Jew."
"It isn't a great thing to get the best of other people," said Vladya.
"Is mind only to be used for cheating?"
Peredonov looked angrily at Vladya.
"The mind is for learning, and you don't learn," he said.
Vladya sighed and turned away and began to watch the cob's even
trotting. But Peredonov continued:
"The Jews are clever in everything. Clever in learning and in
everything. If the Jews were allowed to become professors, all
professors would be Jews. But the Polish women are all sluts."
He looked at Marta and noted with satisfaction that she blushed
violently. He became amiable:
"Now, don't think that I'm talking about you. I know that you would be
a good housekeeper."
"All Polish women are good housekeepers," replied Marta.
"Well, yes," said Peredonov, "they're good housekeepers. They're clean
on top, but their petticoats are dirty. But then you had Mickiewicz.[1]
He's better than our Pushkin. He hangs on my wall--Pushkin used to hang
there, but I took him down and hung him in the privy. He was a lackey."
"But you're a Russian," said Vladya. "What's our Mickiewicz to you?
Pushkin's a good poet and Mickiewicz's a good poet."
"Mickiewicz is better," asseverated Peredonov. "The Russians are fools.
They've invented only the samovar--nothing else."
Peredonov looked at Marta, screwed up one eye and said:
"You've got a lot of freckles. That's not pretty."
"What can one do?" asked Marta, smiling.
"I've got freckles too," said Vladya, turning round on his narrow seat
and brushing against the silent Ignaty.
"You're a boy," said Peredonov, "and so it doesn't matter. A man
needn't be handsome; but it doesn't become a girl," he went on, turning
to Marta. "No one will want to marry you. You ought to bathe your face
in cucumber-brine."
Marta thanked him for his advice.
Vladya looked smilingly at Peredonov.
"What are you grinning at?" said Peredonov. "Just wait till we're
there--then you'll get what's waiting for you."
Vladya, shifting in his seat, looked attentively at Peredonov and
tried to find out if he were joking or speaking seriously. But
Peredonov could not bear to have anyone stare at him.
"What are you eyeing me for?" he asked harshly. "There are no patterns
on me. Are you trying to cast a spell on me?"
Vladya was frightened and turned away his eyes.
"I'm sorry," he added timidly, "I didn't do it on purpose."
"And do you believe in the evil eye?" asked Marta.
"Of course the evil eye is a superstition," said Peredonov angrily.
"But it's so awfully rude to stare at people."
There was an awkward silence for the next few minutes.
"You're very poor, aren't you?" said Peredonov suddenly.
"Well, we're not rich," said Marta, "but still we're not so poor. Each
one of us has a little something put aside."
Peredonov looked at her incredulously and said:
"I'm sure you're poor. You go barefoot at home every day."
"We don't do it from poverty," exclaimed Vladya.
"What then? From wealth?" asked Peredonov, and burst into a laugh.
"Not at all from poverty," said Vladya flushing. "It's very good for
the health. It hardens one, and it's very pleasant in summer."
"You're lying," said Peredonov coarsely, "rich people don't go
barefoot. Your father has a lot of children and hasn't got tuppence to
keep them on. You can't afford to buy so many boots."
[1] Great Polish poet (1798-1855) who "is held to have been the
greatest Slavonic poet with the exception of Pushkin."