A B
ILYA SERGEICH PEPLOV and his wife Cleopatra Petrovna stood outside the door, listening closely. In the small room on the other side of the door someone was quite obviously making a declaration of love: this declaration was being made by the district schoolmaster Shupkin to their daughter Natasha.
“Well, he’s hooked now,” Peplov whispered, shuddering with impatience and rubbing his hands together. “Listen, Petrovna, as soon as they start talking about their feelings for one another, take the icon from the wall and we’ll go in and give them our blessing.… A blessing with an icon is sacred and can’t be broken.… Also, he won’t be able to wriggle out of it, even if he goes to court!”
On the other side of the door the following conversation was taking place:
“Really you’ll have to change your character,” Shupkin was saying as he struck a match on his checkered trousers. “I’ve never written you any letters in my life!”
“What a thing to say! As though I didn’t know your handwriting!” The young woman laughed in an affected manner while gazing at herself in a mirror. “I recognized it at once! How funny you are! A teacher of handwriting, and your handwriting is nothing but a scrawl! How can you teach handwriting when you yourself write so badly?”
“Hm. That’s not important. The really important thing in handwriting is that the children don’t drop off to sleep. Of course, you can give them a little rap on the head with a ruler, or a rap on the knees.… That’s handwriting! … Quite simple, really. Nekrasov was a writer, but it is shameful to see
“Nekrasov is one thing, and you are another.” Here she gave a sigh. “I would marry a writer with the greatest pleasure. He would be continually writing poems in my honor.”
“I would write poems for you, if you wanted me to.”
“What would you write about?”
“About love … about my feelings for you … about your eyes.… When you read them, you would be out of your mind.… You would be moved to tears! And if I really wrote some poetical verses for you, would you allow me to kiss your little hand?”
“What a lot of fuss! Here, kiss it!”
Shupkin jumped up, his eyeballs protruding, and he took her plump little hand, which smelled of scented soap.
“Take down the icon!” Peplov whispered, turning pale with emotion. He jostled his wife with his elbow, and buttoned up his coat. “Well, here we go!”
And without any further delay he threw open the door.
“Children!” he muttered, raising his hands and screwing up his eyes tearfully. “May God bless you, my children.… Live … be fruitful … multiply …”
“I, too, bless you,” the girl’s mother repeated, weeping with joy. “Be happy, my dears. Oh, you are taking away my only treasure!” she added, turning to Shupkin. “Love my daughter, and be good to her!”
Shupkin gaped in astonishment and fright. The sudden descent of the parents was so unexpected and so awesome that he was unable to utter a single word.
“I’m caught! I’m trapped!” he thought, near fainting with terror. “The roofs falling in on you, brother! No use to run!”
And he lowered his head in humility, as though he were saying: “Take me! I have been vanquished!”
“Bless you, bless you!” the father went on, and tears filled his eyes. “Natasha, my daughter, stand beside him.… Petrovna, hand me the icon.”
Suddenly there was an end to his tears, and his face became contorted with rage.
“Idiot!” he shouted angrily at his wife. “Stupid blockhead! Is this an icon?”
“Oh, God in heaven …!”
What had happened? The writing master cautiously looked up and saw that he was saved. In her haste, instead of the icon, the mother had taken from the wall the picture of the writer Lazhechnikov. Cleopatra Petrovna stood there with the portrait in her hands, and she and old Peplov presented an appearance of utter confusion, for they had no idea what to do or say. The writing master profited from their confusion by taking to his heels.
H
EVENING twilight. Thick flakes of wet snow were circling lazily round the newly lighted street lamps, settling in thin soft layers on rooftops, on the horses’ backs, and on people’s shoulders and caps. The cabdriver Iona Potapov was white as a ghost, and bent double as much as any human body can be bent double, sitting very still on his box. Even if a whole snowdrift had fallen on him, he would have found no need to shake it off. The little mare, too, was white, and quite motionless. Her immobility, and the fact that she was all sharp angles and sticklike legs, gave her a resemblance to one of those gingerbread horses which can be bought for a kopeck. No doubt the mare was plunged in deep thought. So would you be if you were torn from the plow, snatched away from familiar, gray surroundings, and thrown into a whirlpool of monstrous illuminations, ceaseless uproar, and people scrambling hither and thither.
For a long while neither Iona nor the little mare had made the slightest motion. They had driven out of the stableyard before dinner, and so far not a single fare had come to them. The evening mist fell over the city. The pale glow of the street lamps grew brighter, more intense, as the street noises grew louder.
Iona heard someone saying: “Driver—you, there!—take me to Vyborg District!”
Iona started, and through his snow-laden eyelashes he made out an officer wearing a military overcoat with a
