“As if there were not enough Tartars in Russia now!” said Piotr, provoked.
“That’s precisely why there are many—because they didn’t amalgamate,” observed Trirodov. “They should have had the sense to establish a Russo-Mongolian empire.”
“And become Mohammedans?” asked Dr. Svetilovitch, a very agreeable person but very confident of all that was obvious.
“Not at all!” answered Trirodov. “Wasn’t Boris Godunov a Christian? That’s not the point at issue. All the same, we and the Catholics of Western Europe have regarded each other as heretics; and our empire might have become a universal one. Even if they had counted us among the yellow race, it should be remembered that the yellow race might have been considered under the circumstances quite noble and the yellow skin a very elegant thing.”
“You are developing a strange Mongolian paradox,” said Piotr contemptuously.
“Even now,” retorted Trirodov, “we are looked upon by the rest of Europe as almost Mongols, as a race mixed with Mongolian elements. You know the saying: ‘Scratch a Russian and you will find a Tartar.’ ”
A discussion arose which continued until they left the table.
Piotr Matov was very much out of sorts during the entire dinner. He found almost nothing to say to his neighbour, a young girl, a dark-eyed, dark-haired beauty, an Es-Dek. And the handsome Es-Dek began to turn more and more towards the diner on the other side of her, the priest Zakrasin. He belonged to the Cadets, but was nearer to her in his convictions than the Octobrist13 Matov.
Piotr was displeased because Elisaveta paid no attention to him and appeared to be absorbed in Trirodov and in what he was saying; and it vexed him because Elena also now and then let her softened gaze rest upon Trirodov. He felt he wanted to say provoking things to Trirodov.
“Yet he is a guest,” reflected Piotr to himself, but at last he could hold out no longer; he felt that he must in one way or another shake Trirodov’s self-assurance. Piotr walked up to him and, swaying before him on his long thin legs, remarked, without almost the slightest effort to conceal his animosity:
“Some days ago on the pier a stranger made inquiries about you. Kerbakh and Zherbenev were talking nonsense, and he sat down near them and seemed very interested in you.”
“Rather flattering,” said Trirodov unwillingly.
“I cannot say to what an extent it is flattering,” said Piotr maliciously. “In my opinion there was little to recommend him. His appearance was rather suspicious—that of a ragamuffin, in fact. Though he insists he’s an actor, I have my doubts. He says you are old friends. A most insolent fellow.”
Trirodov smiled. Elisaveta remarked with some agitation:
“We met him some days ago not far from your house.”
“It’s quite a lonely place,” observed Trirodov in an uncertain voice.
Piotr went on to describe him.
“Yes, that’s the actor Ostrov,” assented Trirodov.
Elisaveta, feeling a strange unrest, put in:
“He seemed to have gone around the neighbourhood looking about and asking questions. I wonder what he can be up to.”
“Evidently a spy,” said the young Es-Dek contemptuously.
Trirodov, without expressing the slightest astonishment, remarked:
“Do you think so? It’s possible. I really don’t know. I haven’t seen him for five years now.”
The young Es-Dek, thinking that Trirodov felt offended at her reference to his acquaintance, added affectedly:
“You know him well; then please pardon me.”
“I don’t know his present condition,” put in Trirodov. “Everything is possible.”
“It’s impossible to be responsible for all chance acquaintances!” interpolated Rameyev.
Trirodov turned to Piotr:
“And what did he say about me?”
But his voice did not express any especial curiosity. Piotr replied with a sarcastic smile:
“He said very little, but asked a great deal. He said that you knew him very well. In any case, I soon left.”
“Yes, I have known him a long time,” was Trirodov’s calm answer. “Perhaps not too well, yet I know him. I had some dealings with him.”
“I think he paid you a visit yesterday?”
“Yes,” said Trirodov in reply to Elisaveta’s question, “he came to see me last evening, quite late. I don’t know why he chose such a late hour. He asked assistance. His demands were large. I will give him what I can. He’s going away from here.”
All this was said in jerks, unwillingly. No one seemed to care to continue the subject further, but at this moment, quite unexpectedly to all, Kirsha entered into the conversation. He went up to his father and said in a quiet but audible voice:
“He purposely came late, while I slept, so that I shouldn’t see him. But I remember him. When I was very little he used to show me dreadful tricks. I don’t remember them now. I can only remember that I used to get frightened and that I cried.”
All looked in astonishment at Kirsha, exchanged glances and smiled.
“You must have seen it in a dream, Kirsha,” said Trirodov quietly. Then, turning to the older people: “Boys of his age love fantastic tales. Even we love Utopia and read Wells. The very life which we are now creating is a joining, as it were, of real existence with fantastic and Utopian elements. Take, for example, this affair of. …”
In this manner Trirodov interrupted the conversation about Ostrov and changed it to another subject that was agitating all circles at the time. He left very soon after that. The others also stayed but a short time.
There was an atmosphere of irritation and hostility after the guests had gone. Rameyev reproached Piotr.
“My dear Petya, you shouldn’t have done that. It isn’t hospitable. You were looking all the time at Trirodov as if you were getting ready to send him to all the devils.”
Piotr replied with a controlled gruffness:
“Yes, precisely, to all the devils. You have guessed my feelings, uncle.”
Rameyev eyed him incredulously and said:
“Why, my dear fellow?”
“Why?” repeated Piotr, giving free rein to his irritation. “What is he? A charlatan? A visionary? A magician? Is he in partnership with some unclean power? What do you think of it? Or is
