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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,17 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,18 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 Headmaster, but as a member of society and as a gentleman you have always the privilege of counting on … the cooperation 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 preeminently 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 cooperation.”
“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 horseshoe; and an ashpan that resembled a peasant’s shoe. Several corn measures containing samples of corn were lying about in the parlour—on the windowsills, on the tables, on the floor, while here and there were pieces of “hungry” bread19—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, pasteboard 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 grownup 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 Headmaster 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.
At last he took his leave, hopelessly oppressed. In this house, he thought, they did not want to understand him or even to listen to what he had to say. The host babbled something unintelligible. Trepetov snorted angrily for some reason or other. The hostess came in ungraciously and walked out again—strange people lived in this house, thought Peredonov. A lost day!