Doulebov and Voronok spoke for a long time in Poterin’s study.
“I don’t question your convictions,” said the Headmaster, “but I must make it clear to you that it is impossible to introduce politics into schools. Children cannot discuss such questions; it does them harm.”
“Agents’ reports are not always to be believed,” said Voronok restrainedly.
Doulebov flushed slightly and said in an annoyed manner.
“We don’t maintain agents, but we have many acquaintances. We have lived here a long time. It is impossible not to hear what is told us.”
The honorary overseer, Zherbenev, invited all who attended the examination to his house to dinner. Only Voronok refused the invitation. But Zherbenev invited others to the dinner—the general’s widow, Glafira Pavlovna, and Kerbakh among them. It was a long and lavish dinner. The guests drank much during and after the meal. Everyone got tipsy. Doulebov alone remained sober. The liqueurs only made him look slightly ruddier—he was very fond of them.
The members of the Black Hundred took advantage of the occasion to say something malicious about Trirodov to Doulebov and the Vice-Governor. The Trirodov school began to be discussed rather vulgarly.
“He’s taken up photography; quite keen on it.”
“He calls in children, makes them take everything off, and photographs them.”
“Yes, and he’s got naked children running about in the woods.”
“Children? The instructresses too!”
“They may not be exactly naked, but they are always running about barefoot.”
“Just like peasant women,” said Zherbenev.
“Yes,” said the Vice-Governor. “It is very immoral for women to go about barefoot. It must be stopped.”
“They are poor people,” said someone.
“It is pornography!” said the Vice-Governor savagely.
And everyone suddenly believed him. The Vice-Governor said morosely:
“He’s lodged a complaint against us for whipping his instructress. But he is lying; he’s whipped her himself. We have no need of whipping girls—but he does it because he’s a corrupt man.”
Someone made the observation that Trirodov was friends with dangerous sects, at which Kerbakh remarked:
“He now has horses and carriages, but I know a man who knew him when he had only his shirt. It is rather suspicious as to where he got his money.”
Glafira Pavlovna looked at Shabalov and whispered to Doulebov:
“I know he is a patriot, but he has terrible manners.”
Doulebov said:
“I know he is very stupid and undeveloped, but zealous. If directed properly he can be very useful.”
Next morning the Headmaster of the National Schools, accompanied by the Vice-Governor and Shabalov, started in their carriages from the Headmaster’s offices and drove off to Trirodov’s school in the Prosianiya Meadows. They had not yet fully recovered from the previous day’s carouse. They carried on their indecent, half-tipsy conversations in the midst of nature’s loveliness. They looked like a lot of picnickers.
Zinaida Grigorievna and Kerbakh, who were in one carriage, were engaged in a malicious conversation. They tore their acquaintances to shreds. She began with Poterin’s gloves. Then she related about the suicide of another inspector’s mistress; she drowned herself because she was about to have a child. Then she told about a third inspector who got drunk in a bathhouse and got into a tussle there with the mayor of the town.
Shabalov was riding in a trap with Zherbenev.
“It would be good to have a tasty snack,” he said.
“We are sure to get something there,” replied Zherbenev confidently.
The visitors were all confident that they were being awaited. Zinaida Grigorievna said:
“The most interesting part of it will be hidden of course.”
“Yes, but we’ll investigate.”
It was a fresh, early morning. The road went through the wood. They had now driven for a long time. It seemed as if the same meadows and woods, copses, streams, and bridges repeated themselves again and again. They began to ask the drivers:
“Are you sure you’re going the right way?”
“Perhaps you’ve lost your way.”
“I think it’s in that direction.”
The two towers of Trirodov’s house soon became visible. They appeared to the right, and yet it was impossible to find the way to them. For a long time they blundered. The roads spread and branched out at this point. At last the driver of the first carriage stopped his horses, and behind it the other carriages came to a standstill.
“I’ll have to ask someone,” said the driver. “There’s some sort of a boy coming this way.”
A ten-year-old, barefoot boy could be seen coming down the road from the wood. Shabalov shouted savagely at him:
“Stop!”
The boy glanced at the carriages and calmly walked on. Shabalov cried more furiously this time:
“Stop, you young brat! Off with your cap! Don’t you see that gentlemen are coming—why don’t you bow to them?”
The boy paused. He looked in astonishment at the variety of carriages and did not take his cap off. Doulebova decided:
“He’s simply an idiot!”
“Well, we shall make him talk,” said Kerbakh.
He left his carriage and, going up to the boy, asked him:
“Do you know where Trirodov’s school is?”
The boy silently pointed to one of the roads with his hand. Then he ran off quickly, and disappeared somewhere among the bushes.
At last the road went along a fence. Everything all around seemed deserted and quiet. Evidently no one awaited the visitors or had arranged to meet them.
Finally they reached the gates of the enclosure. They looked around. It was very quiet. No one was visible anywhere. Shabalov jumped out of his trap and began to look for the bell. Madame Doulebova said in great irritation:
“What do you think of that?”
They tried to open the small gate by themselves but were unable. Shabalov cried out:
“Open the gate! You devils, demons, sinners!”
Madame Doulebova tried to soothe Shabalov, who justified himself:
“Forgive me, Zinaida Grigorievna. It is most annoying. If I had come myself I shouldn’t have minded waiting, though even then it would have been discourteous—being, after all, an official. And here the higher authorities have announced their coming, and these people pay absolutely no attention to it.”
At last the small gate opened, suddenly and noiselessly. A boy, sunburnt and barefoot, in a white shirt and short white breeches, stood on the threshold. The angry Doulebov said in his thin, shrill
