Spit in her dull eyes, my light,
And see that you don’t miss.
Varvara is your wife,
You are handsome, Ardalyon;
She’s a plague upon your life,
You’re as wise as Solomon.”
“That’s true enough,” said Peredonov, “but how can I spit in her eyes? She’ll complain to the Princess and I shan’t get the place.”
“And why do you want the place? You’re good enough without the place,” said Valeria.
“Yes, but how can I live if I don’t get it?” said Peredonov dejectedly.
Darya stuck into Volodin’s hand a letter with a red seal on it. Volodin unsealed the letter, bleating happily, read it and lapsed into thought—he looked proud and a little flurried. It was written briefly and clearly:
“Come, my darling, and meet me tomorrow night at eleven o’clock at the Soldiers’ Baths. Your unknown J.”
Volodin believed in the letter, but the question was—was it worth going? And who was this “J”? Was it some sort of Jenny? Or was it the surname which began with “J”?
Volodin showed the letter to Routilov.
“Go, of course go,” Routilov urged him, “and see what happens. Perhaps it’s some rich catch, who’s fallen in love with you and the parents are against it, so she’s taken this way of speaking to you.”
But Volodin thought and thought and decided that it was not worth while going. He said with an important air:
“They’re always running after me, but I don’t want girls so loose that they run away from home.”
He was afraid that he would get a beating, for the Soldiers’ Baths were situated in a lonely place on the outskirts of the town.
When the dense, noisy, uproariously gay crowd was pushing its way into every part of the Club House, from the door of the dancing hall came a noise, laughter and exclamations of approval. Everyone crowded in that direction. It was announced from one to another that a fearfully original mask had come in. A thin, tall man, in a greasy, patched dressing-gown, with a besom under his arm, with a hat in his hand, made his way through the crowd. He had a cardboard mask on—a stupid face, with a small, narrow beard and side whiskers, and on his head was a cap with a round official badge. He kept repeating in an astonished voice:
“They told me there was a masquerade44 here, but no one seems to be bathing.”
And he languidly swung a pail. The crowd followed him, exclaiming, and genuinely admiring his original idea.
“He’ll get the prize,” said Volodin enviously.
Like many others, he envied unthinkingly—he himself wore no costume, so why should he be envious? Machigin was enthusiastic over this costume, the badge especially aroused his delight. He laughed uproariously, clapped his hands, and observed to acquaintances and to strangers:
“A fine criticism! These officials always make a great deal of themselves—they wear badges and uniforms. Well, here’s a fine criticism for them—very clever indeed.”
When it got hot, the official in the dressing-gown began to fan himself with the besom, exclaiming:
“Well, here’s a bath for you.”45
Those near laughed gleefully. There was a shower of cards into the pail.
Peredonov looked at the besom wavering above the crowd. He thought it was the nedotikomka.
“She’s gone green, the beast!” he thought in horror.
XXX
At last the counting of the cards began. The stewards of the Club composed the committee. A tensely expectant crowd gathered at the door of the judges’ room. For a short time in the dancing-hall everything became quiet and dull. The music ceased. The company grew silent. Peredonov felt sad. But soon an impatient hum of conversation began in the crowd. Someone said in an assured tone that both prizes would go to actors.
“You’ll see,” someone’s irritated, hissing voice could be heard saying. The crowd was restless. Those who had received only a few cards were vexed at this. Those who had a larger number of cards were disturbed by the expectation of a possible injustice.
Suddenly a bell tingled lightly and nervously. The judges came out; they were Veriga, Avinovitsky, Kirillov and other stewards of the Club.
The crowd’s excitement passed through the hall—suddenly everyone was silent. Avinovitsky shouted in a stentorian voice which was heard through the whole hall:
“The album, the prize for the best man’s costume, has been awarded, according to the majority of cards received, to the gentleman in the costume of an ancient German.”
Avinovitsky lifted the album on high and looked savagely at the crowding guests. The huge German began to make his way through the crowd. The others looked hostilely at him and obstructed his passage.
“Don’t jostle, please,” shouted in a tearful voice the dejected woman in the blue costume, with the glass star and the paper moon—Night.
“He’s got the prize and he thinks the women must fall at his feet!” shouted a viciously angry voice.
“You won’t let me pass yourself,” said the German with suppressed annoyance.
At last he managed somehow to get to the judges, and Veriga presented him with the album. The band played a flourish. But the sound of the music was lost in the disorderly noise. People shouted abusive exclamations. They surrounded the German, jostled him and shouted:
“Take off your mask!”
The German said nothing. It would not have been difficult for him to get through the crowd, but he obviously hesitated to use his full strength. Goudayevsky caught hold of the album and at the same time someone quickly tore the mask from the German’s face. The crowd cried out:
“It is an actor!”
Their suppositions were justified: it was the actor, Bengalsky. He shouted angrily:
“Yes, it is an actor! And what of it? You gave me the cards yourselves!”
In answer came the virulent exclamation:
“It’s easy to slip in a few extra!”
“You printed the cards.”
“There have been more cards given in than there are people here.”
“He brought fifty cards in his pocket.”
Bengalsky flushed and shouted:
“It’s disgusting to talk like that. You can prove it if you like. You can count the cards and the
