LITMIR.BIZ

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the roof with their branches. All the four rooms of this little house were kept ready for visitors, and were not badly furnished. Going into the room assigned me, to which my portmanteau had been already taken, I saw on a little table before the bedstead a sheet of notepaper, covered with magnificent handwriting in various styles framed in garlands and flourishes. The capital letters and the garlands were illuminated in various colours. The whole made a very pretty specimen of calligraphy. From the first words I read I saw that it was a begging letter addressed to me, and that in it I was styled “Enlightened benefactor”. It was headed “The Plaints of Vidoplyasov”. Though I tried with strained attention to make out something of what was written, my efforts were all in vain, it was the most inflated nonsense, written in a high-flown flunkey lingo. I could only surmise that Vidoplyasov was in trouble of some sort, was begging for my assistance, was building great hopes upon me, “by reason of my enlightenment”, and in conclusion begged me to interest myself on his behalf with my uncle and to work upon him with “my machinery”, as he expressed it at the end of this epistle. I was still reading it when the door opened and Mizintchikov walked in.

      “I hope you will allow me to make your acquaintance,” he said in a free and easy way, though with extreme courtesy, offering me his hand. “I could not say two words to you this afternoon, and yet from the first glance I felt a desire to know you better.”

      I answered at once that I was delighted and so on, though I was, in fact, in an extremely bad temper. We sat down.

      “What have you got here?” he said, glancing at the sheet of paper which I was still holding in my hand. “Not ‘the plaints of Vidoplyasov’? That’s what it is. I was certain that Vidoplyasov was attacking you too. He presented me with just such a document with the same complaints; and he has been expecting you a long time and most likely got ready beforehand. You need not be surprised: there’s a great deal that’s queer here, and really there is plenty to laugh at.”

      “Only to laugh at?”

      “Oh, well, surely not to cry over. If you like I will give you Vidoplyasov’s history, and I am certain that you will laugh.”

      “I confess I am not interested in Vidoplyasov just now,” I answered with vexation.

      It was evident to me that Mr. Mizintchikov’s friendliness and his polite conversation were all assumed by him with some object, and that he was simply trying to get something out of me. He had sat scowling and serious in the afternoon; now he was good-humoured, smiling, and ready to tell me long stories. It was evident from the first glance that the man was perfectly self-possessed, and he seemed to understand human nature.

      “That cursed Foma!” I said, banging my fist on the table with fury. “I am positive that he is at the bottom of every sort of mischief here and mixed up in it all! Cursed brute!”

      “I think your anger is excessive,” Mizintchikov observed.

      “My anger excessive!” I cried, instantly firing up. “I let myself go too far this afternoon, of course, and so gave everyone a right to blame me. I know very well that I plunged in and put my foot in it on every point, and I think there is no need to tell me that!... I know, too, that that’s not the way to behave in decent society; but how could I help letting myself go? tell me that. Why, this is a madhouse, if you care to know! And... and... in fact... I am simply going away, so there.”

      “Do you smoke?” Mizintchikov asked calmly.

      “Yes.”

      “Then you will probably allow me to smoke? They won’t let me in there, and I am wretched without it. I agree,” he went on, as he lighted a cigarette, “that all this is like a madhouse; but believe me, I do not venture to criticise you, just because in your place I should perhaps be three times as excited and violent as you.”

      “And why were you not violent if you really were angry too? I remember you very cool, on the contrary, and, I confess, I even thought it strange that you did not stand up for my poor uncle, who is ready to befriend... all and everyone!”

      “You are right: he has befriended many people; but I consider it perfectly useless to stand up for him: in the first place it would be useless and even derogatory for him in a way; and in the second I should be kicked out tomorrow. And I tell you frankly my circumstances are such that to be a guest here is a great advantage for me.”

      “But I do not make the slightest claim on your frankness in regard to your circumstances... I should, however, have liked to ask, since you have been here a month...”

      “Please, do, ask anything: I am at your service,” Mizintchikov answered, hurriedly moving up a chair.

      “Well, explain this, for instance: Foma Fomitch has just refused fifteen thousand roubles which were in his hands—I saw it with my own eyes.”

      “What? Impossible!” cried Mizintchikov. “Tell me, please.”

      I told him, saying nothing about “your Excellency”. Mizintchikov listened with greedy curiosity. He positively changed countenance when the fifteen thousand were mentioned.

      “That’s smart!” he said, when he heard my story. “I really did not expect it of Foma.”

      “He did refuse the money, though! How do you explain that? Surely not by the nobility of his soul?”

      “He refused fifteen thousand to take thirty later. Though, do you know,” he added after a moment’s thought, “I doubt whether Foma had any mercenary design in it. He is not a practical man; he is a sort of poet, too, in his own way. Fifteen thousand... h’m. He would have taken the money, do you see, but he couldn’t resist the temptation to strike an attitude and give himself airs. I tell you he’s a sentimental mush, and the sloppiest old sniveller and all that, with the most unbounded vanity!”

      Mizintchikov was positively roused to anger. It was evident that he was very much annoyed and even envious. I looked at him with curiosity.

      “H’m! We may expect great changes,” he added, musing. “Now Yegor Ilyitch is ready to worship Foma. I shouldn’t wonder if he does get married now that his heart is softened,” he muttered through his teeth.

      “So you think that this abominable, unnatural marriage with that crazy fool really will come off?”

      Mizintchikov looked at me searchingly.

      “The scoundrels!” I cried emphatically.

      “There is a fairly sound idea at the back of it, though. They maintain that he ought to do something for his family.”

      “As though he hadn’t done enough for them,” I cried indignantly. “And you, you talk of there being a sound idea in marrying a vulgar fool!”

      “Of course I agree with you that she is a fool... H’m! It’s a good thing that you are so fond of your uncle; I sympathise with him myself... though he could round off his estate finely with her fortune! They have other reasons, though; they are afraid that Yegor Ilyitch may marry that governess... do you remember, an attractive girl?”

      “But is that likely to be true?...” I asked in agitation. “It seems to me that it’s spiteful gossip. Tell me, for goodness’ sake, it interests me extremely...”

      “Oh, he is head over ears in love with her! Only, of course, he conceals it.”

      “He conceals it? You think that he is concealing it? And she? Does she love him?”

      “It is very likely she does. It is all to her advantage to marry him, though; she is very poor.”

      “But what grounds have you for your supposition that they love each other?”

      “Oh, you know, you can’t help seeing it; besides, I believe they meet in secret. They do say that she has illicit relations with him, in fact. Only, please, don’t repeat that. I tell you as a secret.”

      “Is it possible to believe that?” I cried. “And you, you acknowledge that you believe it?”

      “Of

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