XXI
On Sunday when Peredonov and Varvara were lunching, someone entered the hall. Varvara went up to the door stealthily, as was her habit, and looked out. With the same stealthiness she returned to the table and whispered:
“The postman. We’d better give him a vodka—he’s brought another letter.”
Peredonov silently nodded—he didn’t grudge anyone a glass of vodka. Varvara shouted:
“Postman! Come in here.”
The postman entered the room. He rummaged in his bag and pretended to be searching for the letter. Varvara filled a large vodka-glass and cut off a piece of pie. The postman watched her greedily. In the meantime Peredonov was trying to think whom the postman resembled. At last he recalled—he was the same red-pimpled knave who had made him lose so heavily at cards.
“He’ll trick me again,” thought Peredonov dejectedly, and made a Koukish31 in his pocket.
The red-haired knave gave the letter to Varvara.
“It’s for you,” he said respectfully, thanked them for the vodka, drank it, grunted with satisfaction, picked up the piece of pie and walked out.
Varvara turned the letter and without opening it held it out to Peredonov.
“There, read it—I think it’s from the Princess,” she said with a smile. “What’s the good of her writing? It would be much better if she gave you the job instead.”
Peredonov’s hands trembled. He tore open the envelope and quickly read the letter. Then he jumped up from his place, waved the letter and cried out:
“Hurrah! Three inspector’s jobs, and I can have which one I want. Hurrah, Varvara, we’ve got it at last!”
He began to dance and twirl round the room. With his immovably red face and dull eyes he seemed like a monstrously large mechanical dancing doll. Varvara smiled and looked at him happily. He shouted:
“Now it’s decided, Varvara—we’ll get married.”
He caught Varvara by the shoulders and began to whirl her around the table, stamping with his feet.
“A Russian dance, Varvara!” he shouted.
Varvara put her arms akimbo and glided off into a dance, Peredonov danced before her in the Russian squat.
Volodin entered and bleated joyously:
“The future inspector is hopping the trepak!”32
“Dance, Pavloushka!” cried Peredonov.
Klavdia looked in at the door. Volodin shouted at her, laughing and grimacing:
“Dance, Klavdiusha, you too! All together! We’ll make merry with the future inspector.”
Klavdia gave a hoot and glided into the dance, moving her shoulders. Volodin adroitly whirled round in front of her—now he squatted, now he whirled round, now he jumped forward, clapping his hands together. He was especially adroit when he lifted his knee and clapped his hands underneath the knee. The floor vibrated under their heels. Klavdia was overjoyed to have such a clever partner.
When they got tired they sat down at the table and Klavdia ran off into the kitchen laughing gaily. They drank vodka and they drank beer. They jingled bottles and glasses, they shouted, laughed, waved their arms, embraced and kissed each other. Afterwards Peredonov and Volodin went off to the Summer-garden—Peredonov was in a hurry to boast about the letter.
In the billiard-room they found the usual company. Peredonov showed his letter to his friends. It created a great impression. Everyone examined it trustfully. Routilov went pale, muttered something and spat.
“The postman brought it when I was there!” exclaimed Peredonov. “I unsealed the letter myself. That means that there’s no mistake.”
His friends looked at him with respect. A letter from a Princess!
Peredonov went impetuously from the Summer-garden to Vershina’s. He walked quickly and evenly, swinging his arms measuredly and mumbling to himself; his face had no apparent expression of any kind—it was motionless like that of a wound-up doll—and a sort of avid fire gleamed dully in his eyes.
The day turned out clear and warm. Marta was knitting a sock. Her thoughts were confused and devout. At first she thought about sins, but later she turned her thoughts to something more pleasant and began to reflect about virtues. Her thoughts became overclouded with drowsiness and assumed the forms of definite images, and proportionately at their comprehensibility ceased to be expressible in words, their chimerical contours increased in clearness. The virtues stood up before her like big pretty dolls in white dresses, all shining and fragrant. They promised her rewards, and keys jingled in their hands, and bridal veils fluttered on their heads.
One among them was curious and different from the others. She promised nothing but looked reproachfully, and her lips moved with a noiseless threat; it seemed that if she spoke a word one would feel terrible. Marta guessed that this was Conscience. She was in black, this strange painful visitor, with black eyes, and black hair—and she suddenly began to talk about something very quickly and glibly. She began to resemble Vershina. Marta started, answered something to her question, answered almost unconsciously and then drowsiness again overcame her.
Whether it was Conscience, or whether it was Vershina sitting opposite her, talking quickly and glibly but incomprehensibly, smoking something exotic, this person was assertive, quiet and determined that everything should be as she wanted it. Marta tried to look this tedious visitor straight in the eyes but somehow she couldn’t—the visitor smiled strangely, grumbled, and her eyes wandered off somewhere and rested on distant, unknown objects, which Marta found fearful to look at. …
Loud talk awakened Marta. Peredonov stood in the summerhouse and greeted Vershina in a loud voice. Marta looked around in fear. Her heart beat, her eyes were still half-shut, and her thoughts were still wandering, where was Conscience? Or had she not been there at all? And ought she to have been there?
“Ah, you’ve been snoozing there,” said Peredonov to her. “You were snoring in all sorts of ways. Now you’re a pine.”33
Marta did not understand his pun, but smiled, guessing from the smile on Vershina’s lips that something had been said which had to be accepted as amusing.
“You ought to be called Sofya,” continued Peredonov.
“Why?” asked Marta.
“Because you’re Sonya34 and not Marta.”
Peredonov sat down on the bench beside Marta and said:
“I have a very important piece of news.”
“What sort of news can you have?” said Vershina. “Share it with us.”
And Marta immediately envied Vershina because she had such a vast number of words to express the simple question: “What is it?”
“Guess!” said Peredonov in a morose, solemn voice.
“How can I guess what sort of news you have?” replied Vershina. “You tell us, and then we shall know what your news is.”
Peredonov felt unhappy because they did not want to try and guess his news. He sat there silently, hunched up awkwardly, dull and heavy, and looked motionlessly before him. Vershina smoked and smiled wryly, showing her dark yellow teeth.
“Why should I guess your news this way?” she said after a short silence. “Let me find it out in the cards. Marta, bring the cards here.”
Marta rose but Peredonov gruffly stopped her:
“Sit still, I don’t want them. Find out without them, but don’t bother me with the cards. But now you can’t do it at my expense. I’ll show you a trick that’ll make you open your mouths wide.”
Peredonov took his wallet quickly from his pocket and showed Vershina a letter in an envelope, without letting it go from his hands.
“Do you see?” he said. “Here’s the envelope. And here’s the letter.”
He took out the letter and read it slowly with a dull expression of gratified spite in his eyes. Vershina was dumbfounded. To the very last she had not believed in the Princess, but now she understood that the affair with Marta was conclusively off. She smiled wryly and said:
“Well, you’re in luck.”
Marta with an astonished and frightened face, smiled in a flustered way.
“Well, what do you think now?” said Peredonov maliciously. “You thought I was a fool, but I’ve come out best. You spoke about the envelope. Well, here’s the envelope. No, there’s no mistake about it.”
He hit the table with his fist, neither violently nor loudly—and his movement and the sound of his words remained somehow strangely distant, as if he were foreign and indifferent to his own affairs.
Vershina and Marta exchanged glances in a perplexed way.
“Why are you looking at each other?” said Peredonov crossly. “There’s nothing for you to look at each other about: everything’s settled now and I shall marry Varvara. There were a lot of little girls trying to catch me here.”
Vershina sent Marta for cigarettes and Marta gladly ran from the summerhouse. She felt herself free and light-spirited as she went over the little sandy paths strewn with the bright-coloured autumn leaves. Near the house she met Vladya barefoot—and she felt even gayer and more cheerful.
“He’s going to marry Varvara, that’s decided,” she said happily in a low voice as she drew her brother into the house.
In the meantime Peredonov, without waiting for Marta, abruptly took his leave.
“I have no time,” he said, “getting married is not making a pair of lapti.”35
Vershina did not detain him and said goodbye to him coldly. She was intensely vexed: until now she still had kept the frail hope that she would marry Marta to Peredonov and keep Mourin for herself. And now the last hope had vanished.
Marta caught it hot that day! That made her cry.
Peredonov left Vershina and thought he would like to smoke. He suddenly saw a policeman—standing in the corner of the street, shelling dry sunflower seeds.36 Peredonov felt depressed.
“Another spy,” he thought, “they’re watching so as to have some excuse for finding fault with me.”
He did not dare to light the cigarette which he had taken from his pocket, but walked up to the policeman and asked timidly:
“Mr. Policeman, is one allowed to smoke here?”
The policeman touched his cap and inquired respectfully:
“Why do you ask me, sir?”
“A cigarette,” explained Peredonov, “may one smoke a cigarette here?”
“There’s been no law about it,” replied the policeman evasively.
“There hasn’t been any?” repeated Peredonov in a depressed voice.
“No, there hasn’t been any. We aren’t ordered to stop gentlemen from smoking, and if such a rule has been passed I don’t know about it.”
“If there hasn’t been any, then I won’t begin,” said Peredonov humbly, “I am a law-abiding person. I will even throw the cigarette away. After all, I’m a State Councillor.”
Peredonov crumpled up the cigarette and threw it on the ground, and already began to fear that he had said something inadvised, and walked rapidly home. The policeman looked after him in perplexity and at last decided that the gentleman “had had a drop too much,” and, comforted by this, recommenced his peaceful shelling of sunflower seeds.
“The street is standing up on end,” muttered Peredonov. The hill ran up a not very steep incline and then went down abruptly on the other side. At the crest of the street between two hovels was a sharp outline against the blue, melancholy evening sky. Poor life seemed to have shut herself in within these quiet narrow limits and suffered keen torments. The trees thrust their branches over the fences, they peered over and obstructed the way, and there was a taunt and menace in their whispering. A ram stood at the crossroads and looked dully at Peredonov. Suddenly the sound of bleating laughter came from round a corner; Volodin appeared and went to greet Peredonov. Peredonov looked at him gloomily and thought of the ram which had been there a moment ago and had now disappeared.
“That,” he thought, “is certainly because Volodin can turn himself into a ram. He doesn’t resemble a ram for nothing, and it’s difficult to tell whether he’s laughing or bleating.”
These thoughts so preoccupied him that he did not hear what Volodin was saying to him.
“Why are you kicking me, Pavloushka?” he said dejectedly.
Volodin smiled and said bleatingly:
“I’m not kicking you, Ardalyon Borisitch, I’m shaking hands with you. It’s possible that in your village they kick with their hands, but in my village they kick with their feet. And even then it is not people but, if I may say so, ponies.”
“You’ll butt me yet,” growled Peredonov.
Volodin was offended and said in a trembling voice:
“I haven’t grown any horns yet, Ardalyon Borisitch, but it’s very likely you’ll grow them before I do.”
“You’ve got a long tongue that babbles nonsense,” said Peredonov angrily.
“If that’s your idea of me, Ardalyon Borisitch,” said Volodin quickly, “then I’ll be silent.”
And his face bore an injured expression and his lips protruded; nevertheless he walked at Peredonov’s side; he had not yet dined and he counted on having dinner with Peredonov: luckily they had invited him that morning.
An important piece of news awaited Peredonov at home. While still in the hall it was easy to guess that something unusual had happened—a bustling could be heard in the rooms mingled with frightful exclamations. Peredonov at once thought that the dinner was not ready, and that when they saw him coming they had been frightened and were now hurrying. It was pleasant to him to know that they were afraid of him! But it turned out to be quite another matter. Varvara ran out into the hall and shouted:
“The cat’s been sent back!”
In her excitement she did not notice Volodin at first. As usual, her dress was untidy—a greasy blouse over a grey dirty skirt and worn-out house slippers. Her hair was uncombed and tousled. She said to Peredonov excitedly:
“It’s Irishka again! She’s played us a new trick out of spite. She sent a boy here again to throw the cat in here—and the cat has rattles on its tail and they keep on rattling. The cat has got under the sofa and won’t come out.”
Peredonov felt terribly alarmed.
“What’s to be done now?” he asked.
“Pavel Vassilyevitch,” said Varvara, “you’re younger, fetch the cat out from under the sofa.”
“We’ll fetch him out, we’ll fetch him out,” said Volodin with a snigger, and went into the parlour.
Somehow they managed to drag out the cat from under the sofa and took the rattles off his tail. Peredonov found some thistle heads and began to stick them into the cat’s fur. The cat spat violently and ran into the kitchen. Peredonov, tired of his messing about with the cat, sat down in his usual position—his elbows on the arms of the chair, his fingers interlaced, his legs crossed, his face motionless and morose.
Peredonov kept the Princess’s second letter more zealously than the first: he always carried it about with him in his wallet and showed it to everyone, looking mysterious as he did so. He looked vigilantly to see that no one took the letter away from him. He did not give it into anyone’s hands, and after each showing he put it away in his wallet, which he put into the side-pocket of his frock-coat, buttoned up his coat and looked gravely and significantly at his companions.
“Why do you hide it away like that?” Routilov once asked him laughingly.
“As a precaution,” said Peredonov morosely, “who can tell? You might take it from me.”
“It’d be a case for Siberia,” said Routilov with a contemptuous laugh, slapping Peredonov on the back.
But Peredonov preserved an imperturbable dignity. In general he had lately been assuming an air of greater importance. He often boasted:
“I’ll be an inspector. You will go sour here, but I shall have two districts to begin with. And then perhaps three, Oh—ho—ho!”
He was quite convinced that he would receive his inspector’s position very soon. More than once he said to the schoolmaster, Falastov:
“I’ll get you too out of here, old chap.”
And the schoolmaster, Falastov, was more respectful in his bearing to Peredonov.