LITMIR.BIZ

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also in a whisper. “Why, I thought she was an orphan.”

      “It’s her father, my boy, her father. And do you know, a most honest, a most honourable man and he does not even drink, but only plays at being a fool; fearfully poor, my boy, eight children! They live on Nastya’s salary. He was turned out of the service through his tongue. He comes here every week. He is such a proud fellow — nothing will induce him to take help. I have offered it, many times I have offered it — he won’t take it. An embittered man.”

      “Well, Yevgraf Larionitch, what news have you?” uncle asked, and slapped him warmly on the shoulder, noticing that the suspicious old man was already listening to our conversation.

      “What news, benefactor? Valentin Ignatyitch made a statement about Trishin’s case yesterday. The flour under his charge turned out to be short weight. It is that Trishin, madam, who looks at you and puffs like a samovar. Perhaps you graciously remember him? So Valentin Ignatyitch writes of Trishin: ‘If,’ said he, ‘the often-mentioned Trishin could not guard his own niece’s honour — she eloped with an officer last year —

      ‘how/ said he, ‘should he take care of government property?’ He stuck that into his report, by God, I am not lying/’

      “Fie! What stories you tell!” cried Anfisa Petrovna.

      “Just so, just so, just so! You’ve overshot the mark, friend Yevgraf,” my uncle chimed in. “Ate! your tongue will be your ruin. You are a straightforward man, honourable and upright, I can say that, but you have a venomous tongue! And I can’t understand how it is you can’t get on with them. They seem goodnatured people, simple …”

      “Kind friend and benefactor! But it’s just the simple man that I am afraid of,” cried the old man with peculiar fervour.

      I liked the answer. I went rapidly up to Yezhevikin and warmly pressed his hand. The truth is, I wanted in some way to protest against the general tone and to show my sympathy for the old man openly. And perhaps, who knows? perhaps I wanted to raise myself in the opinion of Nastasya Yevgrafovna! But my movement led to no good.

      “Allow me to ask you,” I said, blushing and llustered as usual, “have you heard of the Jesuits?”

      “No, my good sir, I haven’t; well, maybe something … though how should we! But why?”

      “Oh … I meant to tell you something apropos… . But remind me some other time. But now let me assure you, I understand you and … know how to appreciate …”

      And utterly confused, I gripped his hand again.

      “Certainly, I will remind you, sir, certainly. I will write it in golden letters. If you will allow me, I’ll tie a knot in my handkerchief.”

      And he actually looked for a dry corner in his dirty, snuffy handkerchief, and tied a knot in it.

      “Yevgraf Larionitch, take your tea,” said Praskovya Ilyinitchna.

      “Immediately, my beautiful lady; immediately, my princess, I mean, not my lady! That’s in return for your tea. I met Stepan Alexyevitch Bahtcheyev on the road, madam. He was so festive that I didn’t know what to make of it! I began to wonder whether he wasn’t going to get married. Flatter away, flatter away!” he said in a half whisper, winking at me and screwing up his eyes as he carried his cup by me. “And how is it that my benefactor, my chief one, Foma Fomitch, is not to be seen? Isn’t he coming to tea?”

      My uncle started as though he had been stung, and glanced timidly at his mother.

      “I really don’t know,” he answered uncertainly, with a strange perturbation. “We sent for him, but he … I don’t know really, perhaps he is indisposed. I have already sent Vidoplyasov and … Perhaps I ought to go myself, though?”

      “I went in to him myself just now,” Yezhevikin brought out mysteriously.

      “Is it possible!” cried out my uncle in alarm. “Well, how was it?”

      “I went in to him, first of all, I paid him my respects. His honour said he should drink his tea in solitude, and then added that a crust of dry bread would be enough for him, yes.”

      These words seemed to strike absolute terror into my uncle.

      “But you should have explained to him, Yevgraf Larionitch; you should have told him,” my uncle said at last, looking at the old man with distress and reproach. “I did, I did.”

      “Well?”

      “For a long time he did not deign to answer me. He was sitting over some mathematical problem, he was working out something; one could see it was a brain-racking problem. He drew the breeches of Pythagoras, while I was there, I saw him myself. I repeated it three times, only at the fourth he raised his head and seemed to see me for the first time. ‘I am not coming,’ he said; ‘a learned gentleman has arrived here now, so I should be out of place beside a luminary like that!’ He made use of that expression ‘beside a luminary’.”

      And the horrid old man stole a sly glance at me.

      “That is just what I expected,” cried my uncle, clasping his hands. “That’s how I thought it would be. He says that about you, Sergey, that you are a ‘learned gentleman’. Well, what’s to be done now?”

      “I must confess, uncle,” I answered with dignity, shrugging my shoudders, “it seems to me such an absurd refusal that it is not worth noticing, and I really wonder at your being troubled by it… .”

      “Oh, my boy, you know nothing about it!” he cried, with a vigorous wave of his hand.

      “It’s no use grieving now, sir,” Miss Perepelitsyn put in suddenly, “since all the wicked causes of it have come from you in the first place, Yegor Ilyitch. If you take off your head you don’t weep for your hair. You should have listened to your mamma, sir, and you would have had no cause for tears now.”

      “Why, how am I to blame, Anna Nilovna? Have some fear of God!” said my uncle in an imploring voice, as though begging for an explanation.

      “I do fear God, Yegor Ilyitch; but it all comes from your being an egoist, sir, and not loving your mother,” Miss Perepelitsyn answered with dignity. “Why didn’t you respect her wishes in the first place? She is your mother, sir. And I am not likely to tell you a lie, sir. I am a majoi’s daughter myself, and not just anybody, sir.”

      It seemed to me that Miss Perepelitsyn had intervened in the conversation with the sole object of informing us all, and me in particular as a newcomer, that she was a major’s daughter and not just anybody.

      “It’s because he ill-treats his own mother,” Madame la Genirale herself brought out at last in a menacing voice.

      “Mamma, have mercy on us! How am I ill-treating you?”

      “It is because you are a black-hearted egoist, Yegorushka,” Madame la Générale went on, growing more and more animated “Mamma, mamma! in what way am I a black-hearted egoist?” cried my uncle, almost in despair. “For five days, for five whole days you have been angry with me and will not speak to me. And what for? what for? Let them judge me, let the whole world judge me! But let them hear my defence too. I have long kept silent, mamma, you would not hear me; let these people hear me now. Anfisa Petrovna! Pavel Semyonitch, generous Pavel Semyonitch! Sergey, my dear! You are an outsider, you are, so to speak, a spectator. You can judge impartially. …”

      “Calm yourself, Yegor Tlyitch, calm yourself,” cried Anfisa Petrovna, “don’t kill your mamma.”

      “I am not killing my mamma, Anfisa Petrovna; but here I lay bare my heart, you can strike at it!” my uncle went on, worked up to the utmost pitch as people of weak character sometimes are when they are driven out of all patience, though their heat is like the fire of burning straws. “I want to say, Anfisa Petrovna, that I am not ill-treating any one. I start with saying that Foma Fomitch is the noblest and the most honour able of men, and a man of superior qualities too, but … but he has been unjust to me in this

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