The Little Demon

CHAPTER VIII [1] Sarafan, national peasant-woman's costume. [2] See note 2 ch. V CHAPTER VIII 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. CHAPTER IX 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. CHAPTER X On Thursday, Peredonov went to see the Marshal of the Nobility. The Marshal's house reminded one of a palatial cottage in Pavlovsk or in Tsarskoye Selo, with full conveniences even for winter residence. Though there was no blatant display of luxury, the newness of many articles seemed unnecessarily pretentious. Aleksandr Mikhailovitch Veriga received Peredonov in his study. He pretended to hurry forward to greet his guest, and gave the impression that it was only his extreme busyness that kept him from meeting Peredonov earlier. Veriga held himself extraordinarily erect even for a retired cavalry officer. It was whispered that he wore corsets. His clean-shaven face was a uniform red, as if it were painted. His head was shorn by the closest-cutting clippers—a convenient method of minimising his bald patch. His eyes were grey, affable, but cold. In his manner he was extremely amiable to everyone, but his views were decided and severe. A fine military discipline was apparent in all his movements, and there was a hint in his habits of the future Governor. Peredonov began to explain his business to him across a carved oak table: "All sorts of rumours are being spread about me and, as a gentleman, [1] I turn to you. All sorts of nonsense is being said about me, your Excellency, none of which is true." "I haven't heard anything," replied Veriga, smiling amiably and expectantly, and fixing his attentive grey eyes on Peredonov. Peredonov looked fixedly in one corner of the room and said: "I never was a Socialist. But if it sometimes happened that I said something I oughtn't to say, you must remember that one is apt to be a little careless in one's young days. But I've given up thinking of such things altogether." "So you were quite a Liberal?" asked Veriga with an amiable smile. "You wanted a Constitution, isn't that so? But we all wanted a Constitution when we were young. Have one of these." Veriga pushed a box of cigars towards Peredonov who was afraid to take one and refused. Veriga lighted his own. "Of course, your Excellency," admitted Peredonov, "in the University I, and only I, wanted a different kind of Constitution from the others." "And what sort precisely?" asked Veriga with a shade of approaching displeasure in his voice. "What I wanted was a Constitution without a Parliament," explained Peredonov, "because in a Parliament they only wrangle." Veriga's eyes lit up with quiet amusement. "A Constitution without a Parliament!" he said reflectively. "Do you think it's practical?" "But even that was a long time ago," said Peredonov. "Now I want nothing of the sort." And he looked hopefully at Veriga. Veriga blew a thin wisp of smoke from his lips, was silent a moment, and then said slowly: "Well, you're a schoolmaster. And my duties in the district have something to do with the schools. Now, in your opinion, to what kind of school would you give preference: to the Parish Church Schools or to the so-called secularised District Schools?" Veriga knocked the ash from his cigar and fixed an amiable but very attentive gaze on Peredonov. Peredonov frowned, looked into the corners and said: "The District Schools ought to be reorganised." "Reorganised," repeated Veriga in an indefinite tone. "So-o." And he fixed his eyes on the smouldering cigar, as if he were awaiting a long explanation. "The Instructors there are Nihilists," said Peredonov. "The Instructresses don't believe in God. They stand in church and blow their noses." Veriga glanced quickly at Peredonov and said with a smile: "But that's necessary sometimes, you know." "Yes, but the one I mean blows her nose like a horn, so that the boys in the choir laugh," growled Peredonov. "She does it on purpose. That's the sort Skobotchkina is." "Yes, that is unpleasant," said Veriga, "but in Skobotchkina's case it's due to a bad bringing up. She's a girl altogether without manners, but an enthusiastic schoolmistress. In any case it's not nice: she must be told about it." "And she walks about in a red shirt. And sometimes she even walks barefoot in a sarafan. She practises at the high-jumps with the little boys. It's too free in the schools," went on Peredonov. "There's no discipline of any kind. They actually don't want to chastise the pupils. The muzhiks' children shouldn't be treated in the same way as the children of gentlemen—they have to be birched." Veriga looked calmly at Peredonov, then, as if feeling uneasy at Peredonov's untactful remarks, he lowered his eyes, and said in a cold, almost gubernatorial tone: "I must say that I have noticed many good qualities in pupils from District Schools. Undoubtedly, in the great majority of cases, they do their work very conscientiously. Of course, as everywhere, the children are sometimes guilty of offences. In consequence of a bad upbringing and of a poor environment, these offences can take a coarse form, all the more since among the Russian village population the general feelings of duty, of honour and respect of private ownership are little developed. The school should concern itself with these offences attentively and sternly. When all methods of persuasion are exhausted and if the offence is a severe one, then of course it should follow that in order not to ruin the boy extreme measures must be taken. Besides, this should apply to all children, even to those of gentlemen. In general, however, I agree with you that in schools of this kind training is not satisfactorily organised. Madame Shteven, [2] in her extremely interesting book—have you read it?" "No, your Excellency," said Peredonov in confusion, "I never have the time. There's so much work in school. But I will read it." "Well, that's not altogether necessary," said Veriga with a smile, as if he were forbidding Peredonov's reading it. "Yes, Madame Shteven recounts with distress that two of her pupils, young men of seventeen, were sentenced to be birched by the District Court. You see, they were proud young fellows—let me add that we all suffered while they suffered the execution of the sentence—this penalty was afterwards abolished. And, let me say that if I were in Madame Shteven's place I would like to let all Russia know that this has happened: because, just imagine, they were sentenced for stealing apples. Observe, for stealing! And what's more she writes that they were her very best pupils. Yet they stole the apples! Fine bringing up! It must frankly be admitted that we don't respect the rights of ownership." Veriga rose from his place in agitation, made two steps forward, but controlled himself and immediately sat down again. "Now when I am an inspector of National Schools I shall do things differently," said Peredonov. "Have you that position in prospect?" asked Veriga. "Yes, Princess Volchanskaya has promised me." Veriga assumed an expression of pleasure. "I shall be very glad to congratulate you. I have no doubt that in your hands things will be improved." "But, your Excellency, in the town they're spreading all sorts of nonsense about me—you can't tell, someone in the district may inform against me and hinder my appointment, and I haven't done anything." "Whom do you suspect in the spreading of these false rumours?" asked Veriga. Peredonov mumbled in confusion: "Who should I suspect? I don't know, but they do gossip about me. And I have come to you because they might injure my position." Veriga reflected that he would not know who was spreading the gossip, because he was not yet Governor. He again assumed his role of Marshal, and made a speech which Peredonov listened to with fear and depression: "I appreciate the confidence which you have shown me in calling upon my"—(Veriga wanted to say "patronage" but refrained)—"intervention between you and the society in which, according to your information, these detrimental rumours about you are being disseminated. These rumours have not yet reached me, and you may depend upon it that the calumnies, which are being spread in connection with you, dare not venture to rise from the low places of the town public, and, in other words, they will not go beyond the secret darkness in which they are confined. But it is very pleasant to me that you, who hold your official post by appointment, at the same time value so highly the importance of public opinion and the dignity of the position you occupy as a trainer of youth, one of those to whose enlightening solitude we, the parents, entrust our most priceless inheritance, namely, our children, the heirs of our name and of our labours. As an official you have your chief in the person of your honoured Head-Master, but as a member of society and as a gentleman you have always the privilege of counting on ... the co-operation of the Marshal of Nobility in questions concerning your honour and your dignity as a man and a gentleman." As he continued to speak, Veriga rose and, pressing heavily on the edge of the table with the fingers of his right hand, looked at Peredonov with that impersonally affable and attentive expression with which an orator looks at a crowd when pronouncing benevolent official speeches. Peredonov rose also, and crossing his hands on his stomach, looked morosely at the rug under the Marshals feet. Veriga went on: "I am glad that you turned to me, because in our time it is especially useful to members of the official classes always and everywhere to remember above all things that they are gentlemen and to value their membership of this class—not only in the matter of privileges but also in responsibilities and in their dignity as gentlemen. Gentlemen, in Russia, as you know, are pre-eminently of the Civil Service. Strictly speaking, all governmental positions, except the very lowest, it goes without saying, should be found only in gentlemen's hands. The presence of commoners in the Government service constitutes of course one of the causes of undesirable occurrences such as that which has disturbed your tranquillity. Intrigue and calumny, these are the weapons of people of lower breed, not brought up in fine gentlemanly traditions. But I hope that public opinion will make itself heard clearly and loudly on your behalf, and in this connection you can fully count on my co-operation." "I thank your Excellency most humbly," said Peredonov, "and I am glad that I can count on you." Veriga smiled amiably and did not sit down, giving Peredonov to understand that the interview was closed. As he finished his speech he suddenly realised that what he had said was out of place and that Peredonov was nothing but a timorous place-seeker, knocking at doors in his search for patronage. As the footman in the hall helped him on with his coat he heard the sounds of a piano in a distant room. Peredonov thought that in this house lived people of great self-esteem whose manner of life was really seigneurial. "He has a Governorship in view," thought Peredonov with a feeling of respectful and envious astonishment. On the stairs he met two of the Marshal's boys returning from a walk with their tutor. Peredonov looked at them with morose curiosity. "How clean they are!" he thought. "There's not a speck of dirt even in their ears. How alive they are, and they're trained to hold themselves straight as a taut fiddle-string. And they're never even whipped, if you please," thought Peredonov. And he looked angrily after them as they ran up the stairs, chattering gaily. It astonished Peredonov that the tutor treated them as equals—he did not frown at them nor did he scold them. When Peredonov returned home he found Varvara in the drawing-room with a book in her hands, which was a rare occurrence. Varvara was reading a cookery book, the only one she had, and which she sometimes looked into. The book was old, ragged and had black binding. The binding caught Peredonov's eye, and it depressed him. "What are you reading, Varvara?" he asked angrily. "What? Can't you see? A cookery book," replied Varvara. "I haven't time to read nonsense." "Why a cookery book?" asked Peredonov in fright. "What do you mean, why? I want to find some new dishes for you—you're always grumbling about the food," said Varvara with a sort of sarcastic self-satisfaction. "I won't eat from a black book," announced Peredonov decisively, and quickly tore the book from Varvara's hands and took it into the bedroom. "A black book! The idea of preparing dinners from it!" The thought filled him with fear. It had come to that: he was to be ruined openly with black magic! "I must destroy this awful book," he thought, and paid no attention to Varvara's grumbling. On Friday Peredonov went to see the President of the District Landlords' Board. Everything in this house pointed to a love of simplicity and good living, and to the fact that the occupants had public interest at heart. Many objects of good furniture, reminding one of village life, were about, among other things a chair with a back made of a harness arch and hand supports resembling axe handles; an inkwell shaped like a horse-shoe; and an ash-pan that resembled a peasant's shoe. Several corn measures containing samples of corn were lying about in the parlour—on the window-sills, on the tables, on the floor, while here and there were pieces of "hungry" bread [3] —dirty lumps that resembled peat. In the drawing-room were designs and models of agricultural machines. Several cases of books on rural economy and school matters encumbered the study. The table was covered with papers, printed forms, paste-board boxes containing cards of various sizes. There was much dust, and not a single picture. The master of the house, Ivan Stepanovitch Kirillov, was very anxious, on the one hand, to be amiable—in the European fashion—on the other not to detract from his own dignity as a district landowner. He was a strange contradiction, as if welded from two halves. It was evident from all his surroundings that he did a great deal of work with intelligence. But to look at him you might imagine that his work in the district was only a temporary distraction and that his real cares were somewhere before him. This was evident in his eyes, which now and then stared into the distance—eyes alert yet inanimate in their tinny gleam. It was as if someone had taken out his live soul and put it into a long box, and had replaced it with a skilful, bustling machine. He was of low stature, thin, youngish—so youngish and ruddy that now and then he looked like a boy who had glued on a false beard and had assumed grown-up manners with complete success. His movements were quick but precise; when he greeted anyone he bowed elaborately, and he seemed to glide on the soles of his fancy boots. One's impulse was to call his clothes a "small costume": he wore a grey jacket, a shirt of unstarched batiste with turned-down collar, a blue cord tie, narrow trousers and grey socks. And his always courteous conversation was also ambiguous: he would speak quite gravely and then suddenly an ingenuous smile, like a child's, would appear, and then next moment he would be grave again. His wife, a quiet, sedate woman, who seemed older than her husband, came into the study a number of times while Peredonov was there, and each time she asked her husband for some detailed information about the affairs of the district. Their household in town was always confused—there were always visitors on business and constant teas. Hardly had Peredonov seated himself when they brought him a glass of lukewarm tea and some rolls on a plate. Before Peredonov arrived there was already a visitor there. Peredonov knew him—but then who is not known to everyone in our town? Everyone knows everyone else, but some have quarrelled and broken off the acquaintance. This was the District physician, Georgiy Semenovitch Trepetov, a little man—even smaller than Kirillov—with a pimply, insignificant, sharp-featured face. He wore blue spectacles, and he always looked under or to the side of them, as if it were an effort to look at his companion. He was unusually upright, and never gave a single kopeck for anyone else's benefit. He detested deeply everyone who was a government official: he would go so far as to shake hands at meeting but stubbornly refrained from conversation. For this he was reputed a shining light—like Kirillov—although he knew very little and was a poor physician. He was all the time getting ready to lead the simple life, and with this intention he looked on at the muzhiks when they blew their noses and scratched the back of their heads and wiped their mouths with the back of their hands; when he was alone he sometimes imitated them, but he always put off his simplification till next summer. Peredonov here also repeated his usual complaints against the town gossip, such as he had made during the last few days, and against the envious people who wanted to hinder his obtaining an inspector's position. At the beginning Kirillov felt rather flattered by this attention. He exclaimed: "Now you can see what goes on in provincial towns. I always said that the one deliverance for thinking people is to join hands—and I'm glad that you've come to the same conclusion." Trepetov snorted angrily, as if affronted. Kirillov looked at him timorously. Trepetov said with contempt: "Thinking people!" and then he snorted again. After a short silence he began again in his thin, indignant voice: "I don't know how thinking people can serve a musty classicism." Kirillov said irresolutely: "But, Georgiy Semenovitch, you never realise that a man does not always choose his own profession." Trepetov snorted contemptuously, which finally settled the amiable Kirillov, and became immersed in a deep silence. Kirillov turned to Peredonov when he heard that he was talking of an inspector's position. Kirillov looked worried. He imagined that Peredonov wanted to be an inspector in our district. In the District Council there had matured a project to establish the position of their Inspector of schools, who was to be chosen by the Council, the appointment to be approved by the Educational Commission. Then, the Inspector Bogdanov, who had charge of the schools of three districts, would be transferred to one of the neighbouring towns, and the schools of our district would be turned over to the new Inspector. For this position the members of the Council had in view an instructor in a pedagogical seminary in the neighbouring town, Safata. "I have patrons," said Peredonov, "but I'm afraid that the Head-Master here will harm my chances—yes, and other people too. All sorts of nonsense is being spread about me. So that in case of any inquiries concerning me, I want to say now that all this talk is rubbish. Don't you believe any of it." Kirillov replied alertly: "I have no time, Ardalyon Borisitch, to give attention to all the town rumours and gossip; I'm up to my neck in work. If my wife didn't help me, I don't know what I should do. But I am fully convinced that all that is being said about you—though I assure you I haven't heard anything—is mere gossip. But the position you have in view doesn't depend on me alone." "They might ask you about it," said Peredonov. Kirillov looked at him in astonishment, and said: "Of course they will. But the real point at issue is that we have in view ..." At this moment Kirillov's wife appeared at the door and said: "Stepan Ivanitch, just a moment." The husband went to her. She whispered to him in a worried way: "I think you'd better not tell this creature that we have Krasilnikov in view. I mistrust this creature—he will try to spoil Krasilnikov's chances." "You think so?" whispered Kirillov. "Yes, yes, you may be right. It's an unpleasant business." He clutched his head. His wife looked at him with professional sympathy and said: "It is better to tell him nothing at all about it—as if there were no vacancy." "Yes, yes, you're right," whispered Kirillov. "But I must run along—it's discourteous." He ran back into his study and began to converse amiably with Peredonov. "So you will—if ..." began Peredonov. "Please rest assured. Please rest assured. I'll have it in view," said Kirillov quickly. "We haven't yet fully decided this question." Peredonov did not understand to what question Kirillov referred, and he felt oppressed and apprehensive. Kirillov went on: "We are establishing a school-map. We've had experts from Peterburg. They've worked at it the whole summer. It cost us nine hundred roubles. We're preparing now for the District meeting. It's a remarkably efficient plan—all distances have been considered and all school points have been mapped out." And Kirillov explained the school-map minutely and at length, that is, the apportioning the District into several small divisions, with a school in each, so that every village would have its school close at hand. Peredonov understood nothing of this and became entangled with his dull thoughts in the wordy strands of the net which Kirillov handled so deftly and quickly.

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