For a whole hour Varvara tried to persuade her. She promised her all sorts of gifts, and even offered a little money in advance. In the end Grushina agreed. They decided to act in this way: First, Varvara would say that she had replied to the Princess’s letter, thanking her; then, after several days, a letter would arrive, ostensibly from the Princess. In that letter it would be even more definitely stated that there were certain positions in view, and that as soon as they were married it would be possible, with a little effort, to procure one for Peredonov. This letter, like the first, would be written by Grushina—then they would seal it up, put a seven kopeck stamp on it, Grushina would enclose it in a letter to her friend in Peterburg, who would drop it into a letter-box.
Presently Varvara and Grushina set out to a shop at the extreme end of the town and there bought a packet of narrow envelopes with a coloured lining, and some coloured paper, the last of the kind in the shop. This precaution had been suggested by Grushina in order to help conceal the forgery. The narrow envelopes were chosen so that the forged letter could easily be enclosed in another envelope.
When they got back to Grushina’s house they composed the Princess’s letter. When, in the course of a couple of days, the letter was ready, they scented it with Chypre. The remaining envelopes and paper they burnt, so that no trace should be left.
Grushina wrote to her friend, telling her the precise day on which the letter was to be posted—they calculated for the letter to arrive on Sunday, when Peredonov was at home. This would be an additional proof of the letter’s genuineness.
On Tuesday Peredonov tried to get home earlier from school. Circumstances helped him: his last lesson was in a classroom whose door opened into the corridor where the clock hung and where the school porter, an alert ex-sergeant, rang the bell at stated intervals. Peredonov sent the porter into the office to get the class-book, and himself put the clock a quarter of an hour forward. No one noticed him.
At home Peredonov refused his luncheon and asked for dinner to be prepared later—he had certain business to attend to.
“They tangle and tangle and I must untangle,” said he angrily, thinking of the snares which his enemies were preparing for him.
He put on a frock-coat which he seldom wore and in which he felt constrained and uneasy: his body had grown stouter with years, and the frock-coat sat badly on him. He was annoyed because he had no orders or decorations to wear. Other people had them—even Falastov of the Town School had—and he, Peredonov, had none. It was all the Headmaster’s malice: not once had he been nominated. He was sure of his rank: this the Headmaster could not take away—but what was the use of that, if there were no visible signs of it? However, his new uniform would show his rank: it was pleasant to think that the epaulettes of this uniform would be according to the rank and not according to the class he taught. This would look important—the epaulettes like a general’s and one large star. Everyone in the street could see at once that a State Councillor was walking by. “I shall have to order my new uniform soon,” thought Peredonov.
He went into the street and only then he began to wonder with whom he should begin.
It seemed to him that in his circumstances the most important people were the Commissioner of Police and the District Attorney. It was obvious that he ought to begin with them or possibly with the Marshal of the Nobility. But at the thought of starting with them he was seized with apprehension. Marshal Veriga was after all a general who had a governorship in view. The Commissioner of Police and the District Attorney were the terrible representatives of the police and the law.
“At the beginning,” thought Peredonov, “I ought to begin with the lesser officials and then look about me and nose around—then it will be clear how they’ll treat me and what they’ll say about me.” This is why Peredonov decided that it would be wiser to begin with the Mayor. Although he was a merchant and had only been educated in the District school, still he went about everywhere and everyone came to his house. His position gave him the respect of the town, and even in other towns and in the capital he had quite important acquaintances.
And Peredonov resolutely turned in the direction of the Mayor’s house.
The weather was gloomy, the leaves fell from the boughs submissively and wearily. Peredonov felt somewhat apprehensive. In the Mayor’s house a smell of freshly-waxed parquet floors mingled with a barely perceptible and yet pleasant odour of food. It was quiet and depressing there. The Mayor’s children, a schoolboy and a growing girl—“She has a governess to look after her,” her father used to say—were decorously in their rooms. There it was cosy, restful and cheerful; the windows looked out on the garden; the furniture was comfortable; there were all sorts of games in the rooms and in the garden. The children’s voices sounded cheerfully.
In the first-floor rooms, facing the street, where visitors were received, everything was affected and severe. The red wood furniture was like immensely magnified toy models; it was quite awkward for ordinary people to sit in—when you sat down you felt as if you had dropped on a stone, but the heavy host seemed to sit down quite comfortably. The Archimandrite of the suburban monastery, who often visited the Mayor, called these “soul-saving chairs,” to which the Mayor would answer: “Yes, I don’t like those womanish luxuries that you see in other houses. You sit down on springs and you shake—you shake yourself and the
