“Whom do you suspect in the spreading of these false rumours?” asked Veriga.
Peredonov mumbled in confusion:
“Who should I suspect? I don’t know, but they do gossip about me. And I have come to you because they might injure my position.”
Veriga reflected that he would not know who was spreading the gossip, because he was not yet Governor.
He again assumed his role of Marshal, and made a speech which Peredonov listened to with fear and depression:
“I appreciate the confidence which you have shown me in calling upon my”—(Veriga wanted to say “patronage” but refrained)—“intervention between you and the society in which, according to your information, these detrimental rumours about you are being disseminated. These rumours have not yet reached me, and you may depend upon it that the calumnies, which are being spread in connection with you, dare not venture to rise from the low places of the town public, and, in other words, they will not go beyond the secret darkness in which they are confined. But it is very pleasant to me that you, who hold your official post by appointment, at the same time value so highly the importance of public opinion and the dignity of the position you occupy as a trainer of youth, one of those to whose enlightening solitude we, the parents, entrust our most priceless inheritance, namely, our children, the heirs of our name and of our labours. As an official you have your chief in the person of your honoured Headmaster, but as a member of society and as a gentleman you have always the privilege of counting on … the cooperation of the Marshal of Nobility in questions concerning your honour and your dignity as a man and a gentleman.”
As he continued to speak, Veriga rose and, pressing heavily on the edge of the table with the fingers of his right hand, looked at Peredonov with that impersonally affable and attentive expression with which an orator looks at a crowd when pronouncing benevolent official speeches. Peredonov rose also, and crossing his hands on his stomach, looked morosely at the rug under the Marshals feet. Veriga went on:
“I am glad that you turned to me, because in our time it is especially useful to members of the official classes always and everywhere to remember above all things that they are gentlemen and to value their membership of this class—not only in the matter of privileges but also in responsibilities and in their dignity as gentlemen. Gentlemen, in Russia, as you know, are preeminently of the Civil Service. Strictly speaking, all governmental positions, except the very lowest, it goes without saying, should be found only in gentlemen’s hands. The presence of commoners in the Government service constitutes of course one of the causes of undesirable occurrences such as that which has disturbed your tranquillity. Intrigue and calumny, these are the weapons of people of lower breed, not brought up in fine gentlemanly traditions. But I hope that public opinion will make itself heard clearly and loudly on your behalf, and in this connection you can fully count on my cooperation.”
“I thank your Excellency most humbly,” said Peredonov, “and I am glad that I can count on you.”
Veriga smiled amiably and did not sit down, giving Peredonov to understand that the interview was closed. As he finished his speech he suddenly realised that what he had said was out of place and that Peredonov was nothing but a timorous place-seeker, knocking at doors in his search for patronage.
As the footman in the hall helped him on with his coat he heard the sounds of a piano in a distant room. Peredonov thought that in this house lived people of great self-esteem whose manner of life was really seigneurial. “He has a Governorship in view,” thought Peredonov with a feeling of respectful and envious astonishment.
On the stairs he met two of the Marshal’s boys returning from a walk with their tutor. Peredonov looked at them with morose curiosity.
“How clean they are!” he thought. “There’s not a speck of dirt even in their ears. How alive they are, and they’re trained to hold themselves straight as a taut fiddle-string. And they’re never even whipped, if you please,” thought Peredonov.
And he looked angrily after them as they ran up the stairs, chattering gaily. It astonished Peredonov that the tutor treated them as equals—he did not frown at them nor did he scold them.
When Peredonov returned home he found Varvara in the drawing-room with a book in her hands, which was a rare occurrence. Varvara was reading a cookery book, the only one she had, and which she sometimes looked into. The book was old, ragged and had black binding. The binding caught Peredonov’s eye, and it depressed him.
“What are you reading, Varvara?” he asked angrily.
“What? Can’t you see? A cookery book,” replied Varvara. “I haven’t time to read nonsense.”
“Why a cookery book?” asked Peredonov in fright.
“What do you mean, why? I want to find some new dishes for you—you’re always grumbling about the food,” said Varvara with a sort of sarcastic self-satisfaction.
“I won’t eat from a black book,” announced Peredonov decisively, and quickly tore the book from Varvara’s hands and took it into the bedroom.
“A black book! The idea of preparing dinners from it!” The thought filled him with fear. It had come to that: he was to be ruined openly with black magic! “I must destroy this awful book,” he thought, and paid no attention to Varvara’s grumbling.
On Friday Peredonov went to see the President of the District Landlords’ Board.
Everything in this house pointed to a love of simplicity and good living, and to the fact that the occupants had public interest at heart. Many objects of good furniture, reminding one of village life, were about, among other things a chair with a back made of a harness arch and hand supports resembling axe handles; an
