As soon as Peredonov left to play billiards Varvara went off to see
Grushina. They argued for a long time, and at last decided to mend the
matter with another letter. Varvara knew that Grushina had friends in
Peterburg. With their assistance it would be easy to get the letter
posted in Peterburg.
Just as on the first occasion, Grushina for a long time pretended to
have scruples.
"Oh, Varvara Dmitrievna darling!" she said. "Even the first letter
makes me tremble. I'm always afraid. Whenever I see a police inspector
near the house I almost faint. I think they're coming for me to take me
to jail."
For a whole hour Varvara tried to persuade her. She promised her all
sorts of gifts, and even offered a little money in advance. In the
end Grushina agreed. They decided to act in this way: First, Varvara
would say that she had replied to the Princess's letter, thanking
her; then, after several days, a letter would arrive, ostensibly from
the Princess. In that letter it would be even more definitely stated
that there were certain positions in view, and that as soon as they
were married it would be possible, with a little effort, to procure
one for Peredonov. This letter, like the first, would be written by
Grushina--then they would seal it up, put a seven kopeck stamp on it,
Grushina would enclose it in a letter to her friend in Peterburg, who
would drop it into a letter-box.
Presently Varvara and Grushina set out to a shop at the extreme end
of the town and there bought a packet of narrow envelopes with a
coloured lining, and some coloured paper, the last of the kind in the
shop. This precaution had been suggested by Grushina in order to help
conceal the forgery. The narrow envelopes were chosen so that the
forged letter could easily be enclosed in another envelope.
When they got back to Grushina's house they composed the Princess's
letter. When, in the course of a couple of days, the letter was ready,
they scented it with Chypre. The remaining envelopes and paper they
burnt, so that no trace should be left.
Grushina wrote to her friend, telling her the precise day on which the
letter was to be posted--they calculated for the letter to arrive on
Sunday, when Peredonov was at home. This would be an additional proof
of the letter's genuineness.
On Tuesday Peredonov tried to get home earlier from school.
Circumstances helped him: his last lesson was in a class-room whose
door opened into the corridor where the clock hung and where the school
porter, an alert ex-sergeant, rang the bell at stated intervals.
Peredonov sent the porter into the office to get the class-book, and
himself put the clock a quarter of an hour forward. No one noticed him.
At home Peredonov refused his luncheon and asked for dinner to be
prepared later--he had certain business to attend to.
"They tangle and tangle and I must untangle," said he angrily, thinking
of the snares which his enemies were preparing for him.
He put on a frock-coat which he seldom wore and in which he felt
constrained and uneasy: his body had grown stouter with years, and the
frock-coat sat badly on him. He was annoyed because he had no orders or
decorations to wear. Other people had them--even Falastov of the Town
School had--and he, Peredonov, had none. It was all the Head-Master's
malice: not once had he been nominated. He was sure of his rank: this
the Head-Master could not take away--but what was the use of that, if
there were no visible signs of it? However, his new uniform would show
his rank: it was pleasant to think that the epaulettes of this uniform
would be according to the rank and not according to the class he
taught. This would look important--the epaulettes like a general's and
one large star. Everyone in the street could see at once that a State
Councillor was walking by. "I shall have to order my new uniform soon,"
thought Peredonov.
He went into the street and only then he began to wonder with whom he
should begin.
It seemed to him that in his circumstances the most important people
were the Commissioner of Police and the District Attorney. It was
obvious that he ought to begin with them or possibly with the Marshal
of the Nobility. But at the thought of starting with them he was seized
with apprehension. Marshal Veriga was after all a general who had a
governorship in view. The Commissioner of Police and the District
Attorney were the terrible representatives of the police and the law.
"At the beginning," thought Peredonov, "I ought to begin with the
lesser officials and then look about me and nose around--then it will
be clear how they'll treat me and what they'll say about me." This is
why Peredonov decided that it would be wiser to begin with the Mayor.
Although he was a merchant and had only been educated in the District
school, still he went about everywhere and everyone came to his house.
His position gave him the respect of the town, and even in other towns
and in the capital he had quite important acquaintances.
And Peredonov resolutely turned in the direction of the Mayor's house.
The weather was gloomy, the leaves fell from the boughs submissively
and wearily. Peredonov felt somewhat apprehensive. In the Mayor's
house a smell of freshly-waxed parquet floors mingled with a barely
perceptible and yet pleasant odour of food. It was quiet and
depressing there. The Mayor's children, a schoolboy and a growing
girl--"She has a governess to look after her," her father used to
say--were decorously in their rooms. There it was cosy, restful and
cheerful; the windows looked out on the garden; the furniture was
comfortable; there were all sorts of games in the rooms and in the
garden. The children's voices sounded cheerfully.
In the first-floor rooms, facing the street, where visitors were
received, everything was affected and severe. The red wood furniture
was like immensely magnified toy models; it was quite awkward for
ordinary people to sit in--when you sat down you felt as if you had
dropped on a stone, but the heavy host seemed to sit down quite
comfortably. The Archimandrite of the suburban monastery, who often
visited the Mayor, called these "soul-saving chairs," to which the
Mayor would answer: "Yes, I don't like those womanish luxuries that you
see in other houses. You sit down on springs and you shake--you shake
yourself and the furniture shakes--what's the use of that? And in any
case the doctors also don't approve of soft furniture."
The Mayor, Yakov Anikyevitch Skouchayev, met Peredonov on the threshold
of his drawing-room. He was a tall, robust man with closely cropped
dark hair; he comported himself with dignity and courtesy, though not
altogether free from contemptuousness towards people of small means.
Peredonov sat down heavily in a broad chair and said in answer to his
host's first polite questions:
"I've come on business."
"With pleasure. What can I do for you?" said the Mayor politely.
In his cunning little black eyes suddenly glimmered a spark of
contempt. He thought that Peredonov had come to borrow money, and
decided that he could not let him have more than a hundred and fifty
roubles. There were quite a number of officials in town who owed
Skouchayev more or less significant sums. Skouchayev never referred
to the loan, but he never extended further credit to the delinquent
debtors. He always gave willingly the first time according to the
standing and condition of the borrower.
"You, as Mayor, Yakov Anikyevitch, are the first personage in the
town," said Peredonov. "That's why I came to have a talk with you."
Skouchayev assumed an important air and inclined his head slightly as
he sat in the chair.
"All sorts of scandal are being spread about me," said Peredonov
morosely. "They invent things that never happened."
"You can't gag other people's mouths," said the Mayor. "And, in any
case, in our little Palestines it's well known that gossips have
nothing to do except to wag their tongues."
"They say I don't go to church, but that's not true," continued
Peredonov. "I do go; it's true I didn't go on St. Elias' day, but that
was because I had a stomach ache. Otherwise I always go."
"That's quite true," the host confirmed, "I happened to see you there
myself, though I don't often go to your church, I usually go to the
monastery. It's been a custom of our family for a long time."
"All sorts of scandal are being spread about me," said Peredonov. "They
say that I tell the schoolboys nasty tales, but that's nonsense. Of
course, I sometimes tell them something amusing at a lesson, to make it
interesting. You yourself have a boy at school. Now, he hasn't told you
anything of the sort about me, has he?"
"That's quite true," agreed Skouchayev. "Nothing of the sort has
happened. However, youngsters are usually cunning, they never repeat
what they know they oughtn't to repeat. Of course, my boy is still
quite small. He's young enough to have repeated something silly, but I
assure you he has said nothing of the sort."
"And in the elder classes they know everything for themselves," went on
Peredonov. "But, of course, I never say anything improper there."
"Naturally," replied Skouchayev, "a school is not a market place."
"That's the kind of people they are here," complained Peredonov. "They
invent tales of things that never happened. That's why I've come to
you--you're the Mayor of the town."
Skouchayev felt very flattered that Peredonov had come to him. He did
not understand what it was all about, but he was shrewd enough not to
show his lack of comprehension.
"And there are other things being said about me," continued Peredonov.
"For one thing that I live with Varvara--they say that she's not my
cousin but my mistress. And she's only a cousin to me--honest to God!
She's a very distant relative--only a third cousin; there's nothing
against marrying her. Indeed I'm going to marry her."
"So-o. So-o. Of course!" said Skouchayev reflectively. "Besides, a
bride's wreath ends the matter."
"It was impossible earlier," said Peredonov. "I had important reasons.
It was utterly impossible, or I should have married long ago, believe
me."
Skouchayev assumed an air of dignity, frowned, and, tapping on the dark
tablecloth with his plump white fingers, said:
"I believe you. If that is so, it alters the case entirely. I believe
you now. I must confess that it was a little dubious for you to live,
if you will permit me to say so, with your companion without marrying
her. It was very dubious, perhaps because--well, you know children are
an impressionable race; they're apt to pick things up. It's hard to
teach them what's good, but the bad comes easily to them. That's why
it was really dubious. And besides, whose business is it? That's how I
look at it. It flatters me that you've come to complain to me, because
although I'm only one of the common folk--I didn't go beyond the
District school--still I have the respect and confidence of society.
This is my third year as Mayor, so that my word counts for something
among the burgesses."
Skouchayev talked and all the time entangled himself in his own
thoughts, and it seemed as if he would never end his tongue-spinning.
He stopped abruptly and thought irritatedly:
"This is a waste of time. That's the trouble with these learned men.
You can't understand what they want. Everything's clear to him, to the
learned man, in his books, but as soon as he gets his nose out of his
books, he tangles up himself and tangles up other people."
He fixed his eye on Peredonov with a look of perplexity, his keen eyes
grew dull, his stout body relapsed into the chair, and he seemed no
longer the brisk man of action but simply a rather foolish old man.
Peredonov was silent for a while, as if he were bewitched by his host's
last words. Then, screwing up his eyes with an indefinable clouded
expression, he said:
"You're the Mayor of the town, so you can say that it's all nonsense."
"That is, in what respect?" inquired Skouchayev cautiously.
"Well," explained Peredonov, "if they should inform against me in the
District--that I don't go to church or something or other--then if they
should come and ask you might put in a word for me."
"This we can do," said the Mayor. "In any case, you can rely on us. If
anything should happen, then we'll stand up for you--why shouldn't we
put in a word for a good man? We might even send in a testimonial from
the Town Council. That's all we can do. Or perhaps, if you like, we can
give you a personal recommendation from some prominent citizen. Why
not? We can do it, if it comes to the pinch."
"So I may depend on you?" said Peredonov gravely, as if replying to
something not altogether pleasant to him. "There's the Head-Master
always persecuting me."
"You don't say so!" exclaimed Skouchayev, shaking his head
sympathetically. "I can't imagine how that can be, except from
slanders. Nikolai Vlasyevitch, it seems to me, is a very reliable
man, who wouldn't injure anyone for nothing. I can judge that from his
son. He's a serious, rigid man, who allows no indulgences and makes no
personal distinctions. In short, he's a reliable man. It couldn't be
except from slanders. Why are you at loggerheads?"
"We don't agree in our views," explained Peredonov. "And there are
people in the school who are jealous of me--they all want to be
inspectors. It's because Princess Volchanskaya has promised to get me
an inspector's job, and so they're mad with jealousy."
"So-o. So-o," said Skouchayev cautiously. "But in any case, why should
we go on with our tongues dry? Let's have a snack and a drink."
Skouchayev pressed the button of the electric bell near the hanging
lamp.
"That's a handy trick!" said he to Peredonov. "I think it wouldn't be
bad for you to get into another official position. Now, Dashenka," he
said to the pleasant looking maid-servant of heavy build who came in
answer to the bell, "bring in some _zakouska_ and some coffee, piping
hot kind--d'you understand?"
"Yes," replied Dashenka, smiling, as she walked out with a remarkably
light step considering her heaviness.
"Yes, in another department," Skouchayev turned to Peredonov again.
"Say, in the ecclesiastical. If you take holy orders, you would make
quite a serious, reliable priest. I could help you into it. I have
influential friends among the Church dignitaries."
Skouchayev named several diocesan and suffragan bishops.
"No, I don't want to be a priest," answered Peredonov. "I'm afraid of
the incense--it makes me feel sick and giddy."
"Well, if that's the case, why don't you join the police," advised
Skouchayev. "You might, for example, become a Commissioner of Police.
Do you mind telling me what your rank is?"
"I'm a State Councillor," said Peredonov importantly.
"Well, well!" exclaimed Skouchayev in surprise. "You certainly get high
rank in your profession--and all that because you teach the youngsters?
That shows knowledge is something! Though nowadays there are certain
gentlemen who attack it, still we can't do without it. Though I only
went to a District school, I am sending my boy to a University. When
you send him to a _gymnasia_ you have to force him to go, sometimes
with a birch, but he'll go to a University of his own free will. Let
me say that I never birch him, but if he gets lazy or does something
naughty, I simply take him by the shoulders to the window--there are
birch trees in the garden. I point to the trees--'Do you see that?' I
say to him. 'I see, papa,' he says; 'I won't do it again!' And true
enough it helps--the youngster mends his ways as if he'd actually been
whipped. Ah, those children! those children!" concluded Skouchayev with
a sigh.
Peredonov remained two hours at Skouchayev's. The business talk was
followed by abundant hospitality.
Skouchayev regaled him--as he did everything else--very solidly, as
if he were conducting an important affair. At the same time he tried
to introduce some ingenious tricks into his hospitality. They brought
punch in large glasses like coffee, and the host called it his "little
coffee." The vodka glasses looked as if the foot had been broken off
and the stem sharpened so that they would not stand upright on the
table.
"Now I call these, 'Pour in and pour out,'" exclaimed the host.
Then the merchant Tishkov arrived, a small, grey-haired, brisk and
cheerful man in very long boots. He drank a great deal of vodka and
said all sorts of absurdities in rhyme[1], briskly and gaily, and it
was obvious that he was very satisfied with himself.
Peredonov decided at last that it was time to go home, and he rose to
take his leave.
"Don't be in such a hurry," said the host, "stay a while."
"Stay a while and help us smile," said Tishkov.
"No, it's time to leave," replied Peredonov with a preoccupied air.
"It's time to leave or his cousin'll grieve," said Tishkov and winked
at Skouchayev.
"Just now I'm a busy man," said Peredonov.
"He who's a busy man we praise him all we can," answered Tishkov
promptly.
Skouchayev escorted Peredonov to the hall. They embraced and kissed
each other at parting. Peredonov was pleased with his visit. "The
Mayor's on my side," he thought confidently.
When he returned to Tishkov, Skouchayev said:
"They gossip about that youth."
"They may gossip about that youth, but they don't know the truth,"
Tishkov caught him up immediately, deftly pouring himself a glass of
English bitter.
It was evident that he was not paying attention to what was said to
him, but that he only caught up words for the sake of rhyme.
"He's not a bad fellow," said Skouchayev. "He's a hearty chap and he's
not a fool at drinking," continued Skouchayev as he poured himself a
drink, paying no attention to Tishkov's rhyming.
"If he's not a fool at drinking, then he's not an ass at thinking,"
shouted Tishkov gaily, swallowing his drink at one gulp.
"That he's fussing around with a Mam'zell--what does that matter!" said
Skouchayev.
"Well, he's got a Mam'zell, but she may be a damn sell," replied
Tishkov.
"He who has not sinned against God is not responsible to the Tsar."
"Against God we've all sinned; by love we're all pinned."
"But he wants to hide his sin under a bridal-wreath."
"They'll hide sin under a bridal wreath and tear each other with
furious teeth."
Tishkov always talked in this way when the conversation did not concern
his own affairs. He might have bored everybody to tears, but they
had all got used to him and did not notice his brisk rhyming; but
occasionally they let him loose on a new-comer. But it was all the
same to Tishkov whether they listened to him or not; he could not help
catching up other people's words to make rhymes, and he acted with
the infallibility of a shrewdly devised boring-machine. If you looked
at his quick, precise movements, you might conclude that he was not a
living person, that he was already dead or had never lived, and that
he saw nothing in the living world and heard nothing but dead-sounding
words.
[1] This rhyming fellow is not such a rare specimen as may seem to the
English reader. The tendency to speak in rhymes is rather common among
Russian peasants. The _rayeshnik_ is an interesting native institution.
He usually improvises rhymes at gatherings and entertainments in open
places, especially at carnivals and fairs. There is also the _balagani
d'yed_ (the tent grandfather), who appears in a tent in a long white
beard of flax, and makes jests in rhymes. It is an institution that is
gradually disappearing.