“So I may depend on you?” said Peredonov gravely, as if replying to something not altogether pleasant to him. “There’s the Headmaster always persecuting me.”
“You don’t say so!” exclaimed Skouchayev, shaking his head sympathetically. “I can’t imagine how that can be, except from slanders. Nikolai Vlasyevitch, it seems to me, is a very reliable man, who wouldn’t injure anyone for nothing. I can judge that from his son. He’s a serious, rigid man, who allows no indulgences and makes no personal distinctions. In short, he’s a reliable man. It couldn’t be except from slanders. Why are you at loggerheads?”
“We don’t agree in our views,” explained Peredonov. “And there are people in the school who are jealous of me—they all want to be inspectors. It’s because Princess Volchanskaya has promised to get me an inspector’s job, and so they’re mad with jealousy.”
“So-o. So-o,” said Skouchayev cautiously. “But in any case, why should we go on with our tongues dry? Let’s have a snack and a drink.”
Skouchayev pressed the button of the electric bell near the hanging lamp.
“That’s a handy trick!” said he to Peredonov. “I think it wouldn’t be bad for you to get into another official position. Now, Dashenka,” he said to the pleasant looking maidservant of heavy build who came in answer to the bell, “bring in some zakouska and some coffee, piping hot kind—d’you understand?”
“Yes,” replied Dashenka, smiling, as she walked out with a remarkably light step considering her heaviness.
“Yes, in another department,” Skouchayev turned to Peredonov again. “Say, in the ecclesiastical. If you take holy orders, you would make quite a serious, reliable priest. I could help you into it. I have influential friends among the Church dignitaries.”
Skouchayev named several diocesan and suffragan bishops.
“No, I don’t want to be a priest,” answered Peredonov. “I’m afraid of the incense—it makes me feel sick and giddy.”
“Well, if that’s the case, why don’t you join the police,” advised Skouchayev. “You might, for example, become a Commissioner of Police. Do you mind telling me what your rank is?”
“I’m a State Councillor,” said Peredonov importantly.
“Well, well!” exclaimed Skouchayev in surprise. “You certainly get high rank in your profession—and all that because you teach the youngsters? That shows knowledge is something! Though nowadays there are certain gentlemen who attack it, still we can’t do without it. Though I only went to a District school, I am sending my boy to a University. When you send him to a gymnasia you have to force him to go, sometimes with a birch, but he’ll go to a University of his own free will. Let me say that I never birch him, but if he gets lazy or does something naughty, I simply take him by the shoulders to the window—there are birch trees in the garden. I point to the trees—‘Do you see that?’ I say to him. ‘I see, papa,’ he says; ‘I won’t do it again!’ And true enough it helps—the youngster mends his ways as if he’d actually been whipped. Ah, those children! those children!” concluded Skouchayev with a sigh.
Peredonov remained two hours at Skouchayev’s. The business talk was followed by abundant hospitality.
Skouchayev regaled him—as he did everything else—very solidly, as if he were conducting an important affair. At the same time he tried to introduce some ingenious tricks into his hospitality. They brought punch in large glasses like coffee, and the host called it his “little coffee.” The vodka glasses looked as if the foot had been broken off and the stem sharpened so that they would not stand upright on the table.
“Now I call these, ‘Pour in and pour out,’ ” exclaimed the host.
Then the merchant Tishkov arrived, a small, grey-haired, brisk and cheerful man in very long boots. He drank a great deal of vodka and said all sorts of absurdities in rhyme,15 briskly and gaily, and it was obvious that he was very satisfied with himself.
Peredonov decided at last that it was time to go home, and he rose to take his leave.
“Don’t be in such a hurry,” said the host, “stay a while.”
“Stay a while and help us smile,” said Tishkov.
“No, it’s time to leave,” replied Peredonov with a preoccupied air.
“It’s time to leave or his cousin’ll grieve,” said Tishkov and winked at Skouchayev.
“Just now I’m a busy man,” said Peredonov.
“He who’s a busy man we praise him all we can,” answered Tishkov promptly.
Skouchayev escorted Peredonov to the hall. They embraced and kissed each other at parting. Peredonov was pleased with his visit. “The Mayor’s on my side,” he thought confidently.
When he returned to Tishkov, Skouchayev said:
“They gossip about that youth.”
“They may gossip about that youth, but they don’t know the truth,” Tishkov caught him up immediately, deftly pouring himself a glass of English bitter.
It was evident that he was not paying attention to what was said to him, but that he only caught up words for the sake of rhyme.
“He’s not a bad fellow,” said Skouchayev. “He’s a hearty chap and he’s not a fool at drinking,” continued Skouchayev as he poured himself a drink, paying no attention to Tishkov’s rhyming.
“If he’s not a fool at drinking, then he’s not an ass at thinking,” shouted Tishkov gaily, swallowing his drink at one gulp.
“That he’s fussing around with a Mam’zell—what does that matter!” said Skouchayev.
“Well, he’s got a Mam’zell, but she may be a damn sell,” replied Tishkov.
“He who has not sinned against God is not responsible to the Tsar.”
“Against God we’ve all sinned; by love we’re all pinned.”
“But he wants to hide his sin under a bridal-wreath.”
“They’ll hide sin under a bridal wreath and tear each other with furious teeth.”
Tishkov always talked in this way when
