The next day Peredonov went to see the District Attorney Avinovitsky.
Again it was a gloomy day. The wind came in violent blasts, and whirled
clouds of dust before it. The evening was coming on, and everything was
permeated with the dead melancholy light of bleak skies. A depressing
silence filled the streets, and it seemed as if all these pitiful
houses had sprung up to no purpose, as if these hopelessly decayed
structures timidly hinted at the poor tedious life that lurked within
their walls. A few people walked in the streets--and they walked
slowly, as if they barely conquered the drowsiness that inclined them
to repose. Only children, eternal, unwearying vessels of divine joy,
were lively, and ran about and played--but even they showed signs of
inertia, and some sort of ugly, hidden monster, nestling behind their
shoulders, looked out now and then with eyes full of menace upon their
suddenly dulled faces.
In the midst of the depression of these streets and houses, under
estranged skies, upon the unclean and impotent earth, walked Peredonov,
tormented by confused fears--there was no comfort for him in the
heights and no consolation upon the earth, because now, as before,
he looked upon the world with dead eyes, like some demon who, in his
dismal loneliness, despaired with fear and with yearning.
His feelings were dull, and his consciousness was a corrupting and
deadening apparatus. All that reached his consciousness became
transformed into abomination and filth. All objects revealed their
imperfections to him and their imperfections gave him pleasure.
When he walked past an erect and clean column, he had a desire to
make it crooked and to bespatter it with filth. He laughed with joy
when something was being besmirched in his presence. He detested
very clean schoolboys, and persecuted them. He called them "the skin
scrubbers." He comprehended the slovenly ones more easily. There were
neither beloved objects for him, nor beloved people--and this made it
possible for nature to act upon his feelings only one-sidedly, as an
irritant. The same was true of his meetings with people. Especially
with strangers and new acquaintances, to whom it was not possible to be
impolite. Happiness for him was to do nothing, and, shutting himself in
from the world, to gratify his belly.
"And now I must go against my will," he thought, "and explain matters."
What a burden! What a bore! If he had an opportunity at least of
besmirching the place he was about to visit--but even this consolation
was denied to him.
The District Attorney's house only intensified Peredonov's feeling of
grim apprehension. And really, this house had an angry, evil look. The
high roof descended gloomily upon the windows which came in contact
with the ground. And its wooden border, and the roof itself had at one
time been painted gaily and brightly, but time and the rains had turned
the colouring gloomy and grey. The huge ponderous gates, towering above
the house, and fitted as it were to repel hostile attacks, were always
bolted. Behind them rattled a chain and a huge dog howled in a hoarse
bass at every passer-by.
All around were uncultivated spots, vegetable gardens and hovels which
stood awry. In front of the District Attorney's house, was a long
hexagonal space, the middle of which, somewhat deeper than the rest,
was all unpaved, and overgrown with grass. At the house itself stood a
lamp-post, the only one to be seen.
Peredonov slowly and unwillingly ascended the four high steps leading
to the porch which was covered with a double-sloped roof, and pulled
the begrimed handle of the bell. The bell resounded quite close to him,
with a sharp and continuous tinkle. Soon stealthy footsteps were heard.
Someone seemed to approach the door on tip-toes, and then remained
standing there intensely still. Very likely someone was looking at
him through some invisible crevice. Then there was the creak of iron
hinges, and the door opened--a gloomy, black-haired, freckled girl
stood on the threshold and looked at him with eyes full of suspicious
scrutiny.
"Whom do you want?" she asked.
Peredonov said that he had come to see Aleksandr Alekseyevitch on
business. The girl let him in. No sooner had he crossed the threshold
than he made haste to pronounce a charm. And it was well that he
did so: he had not yet had time to take off his coat when he heard
Avinovitsky's sharp, angry voice coming from the drawing-room. There
was always something terrifying in the District Attorney's voice--he
could not speak otherwise. So even now he was already shouting in the
drawing-room in his angry and abusive voice a greeting of welcome and
joy that Peredonov had at last thought of coming to him.
Aleksandr Alekseyevitch Avinovitsky was a man of gloomy appearance;
and seemed by nature fitted to reprimand and overbear others. A man of
impeccable health--he bathed from ice to ice--he appeared nevertheless
lean because of his shaggy, overgrown black beard, with a tinge of blue
in it. He brought uneasiness if not fear upon everyone, because he
incessantly shouted at someone, and threatened someone with hard labour
in Siberia.
"I've come on business," said Peredonov confusedly.
"Have you come with a confession? Have you killed a man? Have you
committed arson? Have you robbed the post?" asked Avinovitsky angrily
as he admitted Peredonov into the drawing-room. "Or have you been the
victim of a crime yourself, which is more possible in our town. Ours
is a filthy town and its police is even worse. I'm astonished that you
don't find dead bodies every morning lying about the place. Well, sit
down. What is your business? Are you the criminal or the victim?"
"No," said Peredonov, "I haven't done anything of the kind. Now there's
the Head-Master who'd undoubtedly like to settle my hash for me, but I
haven't any such thing in mind."
"So you haven't come with a confession?" asked Avinovitsky.
"No, I can't say that I have," mumbled Peredonov timidly.
"Well, if that's the case," said the District Attorney with savage
emphasis, "then let me offer you something."
He picked up a small handbell from the table and rang it. No one came.
Avinovitsky took the handbell in both hands, raised a furious racket,
then threw the bell on the floor, stamped his feet and shouted in a
savage voice:
"Malanya! Malanya! Devils! Beasts! Demons!"
Unhurried footsteps were heard and a schoolboy came in, Avinovitsky's
son, a stubby, black-haired boy of about thirteen years of age with an
air of confidence and self-assurance. He greeted Peredonov, picked up
the bell, put in on the table and said quietly:
"Malanya is in the vegetable garden."
Avinovitsky recovered his calm for a moment, and looking at his son
with a tenderness that did not altogether become his overgrown and
angry face, he said:
"Now run along, sonny, and tell her to bring us something to drink and
some _zakouska_."
The boy leisurely walked out of the room. His father looked after him
with a pleased and proud smile. But while the boy was still on the
threshold Avinovitsky suddenly frowned savagely and shouted in his
terrible voice which made Peredonov tremble:
"Look alive!"
The schoolboy began to run and they could hear how impetuously he
slammed the doors. Avinovitsky, smiling with his heavy red lips, again
renewed his angry-sounding conversation:
"My heir--not bad, eh? What's he going to turn out like? What do you
say? He may become a fool, but a knave, a coward or a rag--never!"
"Well--a----" mumbled Peredonov.
"People are trivial nowadays--they're a parody of the human race!"
roared Avinovitsky. "They consider health a trifle. Some German
invented under-waistcoats. Now I would have sent that German to hard
labour. Imagine my Vladimir suddenly in an under-waistcoat! Why all
summer he walked about in the village without once putting his boots
on, and then think of him in an under-waistcoat! Why, he even gets out
of his bath and runs naked in a frost and rolls in the snow--think of
him in an under-waistcoat. A hundred lashes for the accursed German!"
Avinovitsky passed from the German who invented under-waistcoats to
other criminals.
"Capital punishment, my dear sir, is not barbarism!" he shouted.
"Science admits that there are born criminals. There's nothing to be
said for them, my friend. They ought to be destroyed and not supported
by the State. A man's a scoundrel--and they give him a warm corner in
a convict prison. He's a murderer, an incendiary, a seducer, but the
tax-payer must support him out of his pocket. No-o! It's much juster
and cheaper to hang them."
The round table in the dining-room was covered with a white tablecloth
with a red border, and upon it were distributed plates with fat
sausages and other salted, smoked, and pickled eatables, and decanters
and bottles of various sizes and forms, containing all sorts of
vodkas, brandies and liqueurs. Everything was to Peredonov's taste, and
even the slight carelessness of their arrangement pleased him.
The host continued to shout. Apropos of the food, he began to abuse the
shopkeepers, and then for some reason began to talk about ancestry.
"Ancestry is a big thing," he shouted savagely, "for the muzhiks to
enter the aristocracy is stupid, absurd, impractical and immoral. The
soil is getting poorer and the cities are filled with unemployed. Then
there are bad harvests, idleness and suicides--how does that please
you? You may teach the muzhik as much as you like but don't give him
any rank--it makes a peasantry lose its best members and it always
remains rabble and cattle. And the gentry also suffer detriment from
the influx of uncultured elements. In his own village he was better
than others, but when he gets into a higher rank he brings into it
something coarse, unknightly and plebeian. In the first case the most
important things are gain and his stomach. No-o, my dear fellow, the
castes were a wise institution."
"Here, for instance, our Head-Master lets all sorts of riff-raff into
the school," said Peredonov angrily. "There are even peasant children
there and many commoners' children."
"Fine doings, I must say!" shouted the host.
"There's a circular saying that we shouldn't admit all kinds of
riff-raff, but he does as he likes," complained Peredonov. "He
refuses hardly anyone. Life is rather poorish in our town, he says,
and there are too few pupils as it is. What does he mean by few? It
would be better if there were less. It's all we can do to correct the
exercise-books alone. There's no time to read the school-books. They
purposely write dubious words in their compositions--you have to look
in Grote to see how they're spelled."
"Have some brandy," suggested Avinovitsky. "Well, what is your business
with me?"
"I have enemies," growled Peredonov, as he looked dejectedly into his
glass of yellow vodka before drinking it.
"There was once a pig who lived without enemies," said Avinovitsky,
"and he also was slaughtered. Have a bit--it was a very good pig."
Peredonov took a slice of ham and said: "They're spreading all sorts of
scandal about me."
"Well, as for gossip I can assure you that no town is worse," shouted
the host. "What a town! No matter what you do, all the pigs begin to
grunt at you at once."
"Princess Volchanskaya has promised to get me an inspector's job, and
suddenly they all begin to gossip. This might hurt my prospects. It all
comes from envy. Now there's the Head-Master, he's corrupted the entire
school--the schoolboys, who live in apartments, smoke, drink and run
after girls and even the town-boys are no better. He's done all the
corrupting himself and now he persecutes me. It's likely that someone's
carried tales to him about me. And then it goes still farther. It might
reach the Princess."
Peredonov dwelt long and incoherently on his apprehensions. Avinovitsky
listened with an angry countenance and punctuated his discourse with
exclamations:
"Villains! Scamps! Children of Herod!"
"What sort of Nihilist am I?" said Peredonov. "It's ridiculous. I
have an official cap with a badge, but I don't always wear it--and I
sometimes wear a bowler. As for the fact that Mickiewicz hangs on my
wall, I put him there because of his poetry and not because he was a
rebel. I haven't even read his 'Kolokol.'"[1]
"Well, you've caught that from another opera," said Avinovitsky
unceremoniously. "Herzen published it and not Mickiewicz."
"That was another 'Kolokol,'" said Peredonov. "Mickiewicz also
published a 'Kolokol.'"
"I didn't know it--you'd better publish the fact. It would be a great
discovery. You'd become celebrated."
"It's forbidden to publish it," said Peredonov angrily; "I'm not
allowed to read forbidden books. And I never read them. I'm a patriot."
After lengthy lamentations in which Peredonov poured himself out,
Avinovitsky concluded that someone was trying to blackmail Peredonov,
and with this purpose in view was spreading rumours about him in
order to frighten him and to prepare a basis for a sudden demand for
money. That these rumours did not reach him, Avinovitsky explained by
the fact that the blackmailer was acting skilfully upon Peredonov's
immediate circle--because it was only necessary to frighten Peredonov.
Avinovitsky asked:
"Whom do you suspect?"
Peredonov fell into thought. Quite by chance Grushina came into his
mind, he recalled confusedly the recent conversation with her, during
which he interrupted her by a threat of informing against her. The fact
that it was he who had threatened to inform against Grushina became
in his mind a vague idea of informing in general. Whether he was to
inform against someone or whether they were to inform against him was
not clear, and Peredonov had no desire to exert himself to recall the
matter precisely--one thing was clear, that Grushina was an enemy. And
what was worse she had seen where he hid Pisarev. He would have to hide
the books somewhere else.
Peredonov said at last:
"Well, there's Grushina."
"Yes, I know, she's a first class rogue," said Avinovitsky sharply.
"She's always coming to our house," complained Peredonov. "And always
nosing around. She's very grasping--she takes all she can get. It's
possible that she wants money from me in order to keep her from
reporting that I once had Pisarev. Or perhaps she wants to marry
me. But I don't want to pay her. And I have someone else I want to
marry--let her inform against me--I'm not guilty. Only it's unpleasant
to me to have this gossip as it might prevent my appointment."
"She's a well-known charlatan," said the District Attorney. "She
wanted to take up fortune-telling by cards here, and to get money out
of fools. But I asked the police to stop it. At that time they were
sensible and did what I told them."
"Even now she tells fortunes," said Peredonov. "She spread out the
cards for me and she always saw a long journey and an official letter
for me."
"She knows what to say to everybody. Just wait, she'll set a trap for
you and then she'll try and extort money from you. Then you come to me
and I'll give her a hundred of the hottest lashes," said Avinovitsky,
using his favourite expression.
This expression was not to be taken literally, it merely meant an
ordinary rebuke.
Thus Avinovitsky promised his protection to Peredonov, but Peredonov
left him agitated by vague fears inspired by Avinovitsky's loud, stern
speeches.
* * * * *
In this manner Peredonov made a single visit every day before
dinner--he could not manage more than one because everywhere he had to
make circumstantial explanations. In the evening, as was his custom, he
went to play billiards.
As before, Vershina enticed him in by her witching invitations, as
before Routilov praised his sisters to him. At home Varvara used
her persuasive powers to make him marry her sooner--but he came to
no resolution. He indeed thought sometimes that to marry Varvara
would be the best thing he could do--but suppose the Princess should
deceive him? He would become the laughing-stock of the town, and this
possibility made him pause.
The pursuit of him by would-be brides, the envy of his comrades, more
often the product of his imagination than an actual fact, all sorts
of suspected snares--all this made his life wearisome and unhappy,
like the weather which for several successive days had been bleak,
and often resolved itself into slow and scant, but cold and prolonged
rains. Peredonov felt that life was becoming a detestable thing--but
he thought that he would soon become an inspector, and then everything
would take a turn for the better.
[1] Alexander Herzen's periodical, the "Kolokol" (The Bell), was
suppressed in 1863 for its sympathy with the Poles.