With astonishment and curiosity Zinaida eyed this strange, coarse, offensively affectionate creature with the heavy sabre in a black sheath dangling about his legs, and asked:
“And who are you?”
The sergeant replied with a very important air:
“I am the local police sergeant.”
He tried to look dignified.
“What is it you want here?” asked Zinaida.
The sergeant turned to her with a wink and asked:
“Now tell me, my beauty, have you a runaway boy from town here? His mother is looking for him, and she’s notified the police. If he’s here with you, we’ve got to return him to town.”
“Yes,” said Zinaida. “A town boy did spend a week with us here. We sent him home only today. He’s very likely with his mother now.”
The sergeant smiled incredulously, and asked:
“You’re not fibbing?”
Zinaida shrugged her shoulders. She looked sternly at the man, and said in astonishment:
“What are you saying? How is it possible to tell an untruth? And why should I tell you an untruth?”
“How is one to tell?” growled the sergeant. “Once I begin to believe you there are lots of things you might say.”
“I’ve told you the truth,” asserted Zinaida once more.
“Well, just be careful,” said the sergeant with dignity. “We’ll find out all the same. You are sure you’ve returned him home?”
“Yes, home to his mother,” replied Zinaida.
“Very well, I shall report that to the Captain of the police.” He told a lie for dignity’s sake. It was the Commissary of the police who sent him here, and not the Captain. But it was all the same to Zinaida. She had got quite accustomed to thinking mostly about the children and her work. The stern reference to the police authorities did not impress her very much.
The police sergeant left. He kept up his broad smile. He looked back several times at the instructress. He was gay and flustered all the way to town. His thoughts were coarse and detestable. Such are the thoughts of the savages who take shelter in the grey expanses of our towns—savages who hide under all sorts of masks, and who strut about in all sorts of clothes.
Zinaida looked sadly after the police sergeant. Coarse recollections of former days revived in her soul, now full of delicious soothings of a different, blessed existence created by Trirodov in the quiet coolness of the beloved wood. Then Zinaida sighed as if awakened from a midday nightmare. She went quietly her own way.
In the course of several days Trirodov’s colony was visited by the Commissary of the police. He comprehended and considered the chaste world of the Prosianiya Meadows in the same way as the illiterate sergeant. Only this consideration expressed itself in a milder form.
The Commissary of the police tried to be very amiable. He paid awkward compliments to Trirodov and his instructresses. But when he looked at the instructresses the Commissary smiled as detestably as the sergeant. His small, narrow eyes, which resembled those of a Kalmyk, became oily with pleasure. His cheeks became covered with a brick-red ruddiness.
When the girls walked off to one side he gave a wink at Trirodov in their direction, and said in a sotto voce:
“A flower garden, eh?”
Trirodov looked severely at the Commissary, who became flustered and rather angry. He said:
“I have come to you, I’m sorry to say, on unpleasant business.”
Indeed, he came under the pretext of discussing the arrangements of Egorka’s position. Incidentally, he hinted that the illegal opening of Egorka’s grave might give cause to an official investigation. Trirodov gave the Commissary a bribe and treated him to lunch. The Commissary of the police left in high spirits.
At last Trirodov had a visit from the Captain of the police. He had a gloomy, inaccessible look. He began quite bluntly about the illegal digging up of Egorka’s grave. Trirodov said:
“Surely it was impossible to leave a live boy to suffocate in a grave.”
The Captain replied in a rather austere voice:
“You should have notified the Prior of the cemetery church of your suspicions. He would have done all there was to be done.”
“But think how much time would have been lost in going after the priest,” said Trirodov.
The Captain, without listening, replied:
“It’s irregular. What would become of us if everyone should take it into his head to open up graves! A chap might do it to steal something, and when he’s caught he might say that he’s heard the corpse was alive and turning in its grave.”
“You know very well,” retorted Trirodov, “that we didn’t go there with the object of robbery.”
But the Captain reiterated harshly and sternly:
“It’s irregular.”
Trirodov invited the Captain to dinner. The Captain’s bribe was, of course, considerably larger than the Commissary’s. After a sumptuous dinner and drinks, and the bribe, the Captain suddenly became softer than wax. He began to dwell on the difficulties and annoyances of his position. Then Trirodov mentioned the search that had been made lately, and the beating the instructress Maria received at the police station. The Captain flushed with embarrassment and said with some warmth:
“Upon my honour, it didn’t depend upon me. I must follow orders. Our new Vice-Governor—forgive the expression—is a regular butcher. That’s how he’s made his career.”
“Is it possible to make one’s career by such means?” asked Trirodov.
The Captain spoke animatedly—and it was evident that the career of the new Vice-Governor agitated his official heart considerably.
“The facts must be familiar to you,” he said. “He killed his friend when he was drunk, was confined in a lunatic asylum, and how he ever got out is beyond comprehension. With the help of patronage he was given a position in the District Government and showed himself to be such an asp that everyone marvelled. He quickly galloped into a councillorship. He subdued the peasants. Of course you must have heard about
