was so shaken by it that the cap flew off his head and the stick dropped out of his hand; and when the school inspector and the teachers, hearing his cough, ran out of the house, he was sitting on the bottom step, bathed in perspiration.
'Fyodor Lukitch, is that you?' said the inspector, surprised. 'You . . . have come?'
'Why not?'
'You ought to be at home, my dear fellow. You are not at all well to-day. . . .'
'I am just the same to-day as I was yesterday. And if my presence is not agreeable to you, I can go back.'
'Oh, Fyodor Lukitch, you must not talk like that! Please come in. Why, the function is really in your honour, not ours. And we are delighted to see you. Of course we are! . . .'
Within, everything was ready for the banquet. In the big dining-room adorned with German oleographs and smelling of geraniums and varnish there were two tables, a larger one for the dinner and a smaller one for the hors-d'oeuvres. The hot light of midday faintly percolated through the lowered blinds. . . . The twilight of the room, the Swiss views on the blinds, the geraniums, the thin slices of sausage on the plates, all had a naive, girlishly- sentimental air, and it was all in keeping with the master of the house, a good-natured little German with a round little stomach and affectionate, oily little eyes. Adolf Andreyitch Bruni (that was his name) was bustling round the table of hors-d'oeuvres as zealously as though it were a house on fire, filling up the wine-glasses, loading the plates, and trying in every way to please, to amuse, and to show his friendly feelings. He clapped people on the shoulder, looked into their eyes, chuckled, rubbed his hands, in fact was as ingratiating as a friendly dog.
'Whom do I behold? Fyodor Lukitch!' he said in a jerky voice, on seeing Sysoev. 'How delightful! You have come in spite of your illness. Gentlemen, let me congratulate you, Fyodor Lukitch has come!'
The school-teachers were already crowding round the table and eating the hors-d'oeuvres. Sysoev frowned; he was displeased that his colleagues had begun to eat and drink without waiting for him. He noticed among them Lyapunov, the man who had dictated at the examination, and going up to him, began:
'It was not acting like a comrade! No, indeed! Gentlemanly people don't dictate like that!'
'Good Lord, you are still harping on it!' said Lyapunov, and he frowned. 'Aren't you sick of it?'
'Yes, still harping on it! My Babkin has never made mistakes! I know why you dictated like that. You simply wanted my pupils to be floored, so that your school might seem better than mine. I know all about it! . . .'
'Why are you trying to get up a quarrel?' Lyapunov snarled. 'Why the devil do you pester me?'
'Come, gentlemen,' interposed the inspector, making a woebegone face. 'Is it worth while to get so heated over a trifle? Three mistakes . . . not one mistake . . . does it matter?'
'Yes, it does matter. Babkin has never made mistakes.'
'He won't leave off,' Lyapunov went on, snorting angrily. 'He takes advantage of his position as an invalid and worries us all to death. Well, sir, I am not going to consider your being ill.'
'Let my illness alone!' cried Sysoev, angrily. 'What is it to do with you? They all keep repeating it at me: illness! illness! illness! . . . As though I need your sympathy! Besides, where have you picked up the notion that I am ill? I was ill before the examinations, that's true, but now I have completely recovered, there is nothing left of it but weakness.'
'You have regained your health, well, thank God,' said the scripture teacher, Father Nikolay, a young priest in a foppish cinnamon-coloured cassock and trousers outside his boots. 'You ought to rejoice, but you are irritable and so on.'
'You are a nice one, too,' Sysoev interrupted him. 'Questions ought to be straightforward, clear, but you kept asking riddles. That's not the thing to do!'
By combined efforts they succeeded in soothing him and making him sit down to the table. He was a long time making up his mind what to drink, and pulling a wry face drank a wine-glass of some green liqueur; then he drew a bit of pie towards him, and sulkily picked out of the inside an egg with onion on it. At the first mouthful it seemed to him that there was no salt in it. He sprinkled salt on it and at once pushed it away as the pie was too salt.
At dinner Sysoev was seated between the inspector and Bruni. After the first course the toasts began, according to the old-established custom.
'I consider it my agreeable duty,' the inspector began, 'to propose a vote of thanks to the absent school wardens, Daniel Petrovitch and . . . and . . . and . . .'
'And Ivan Petrovitch,' Bruni prompted him.
'And Ivan Petrovitch Kulikin, who grudge no expense for the school, and I propose to drink their health. . . .'
'For my part,' said Bruni, jumping up as though he had been stung, 'I propose a toast to the health of the honoured inspector of elementary schools, Pavel Gennadievitch Nadarov!'
Chairs were pushed back, faces beamed with smiles, and the usual clinking of glasses began.
The third toast always fell to Sysoev. And on this occasion, too, he got up and began to speak. Looking grave and clearing his throat, he first of all announced that he had not the gift of eloquence and that he was not prepared to make a speech. Further he said that during the fourteen years that he had been schoolmaster there had been many intrigues, many underhand attacks, and even secret reports on him to the authorities, and that he knew his enemies and those who had informed against him, and he would not mention their names, 'for fear of spoiling somebody's appetite'; that in spite of these intrigues the Kulikin school held the foremost place in the whole province not only from a moral, but also from a material point of view.'
'Everywhere else,' he said, 'schoolmasters get two hundred or three hundred roubles, while I get five hundred, and moreover my house has been redecorated and even furnished at the expense of the firm. And this year all the walls have been repapered. . . .'
Further the schoolmaster enlarged on the liberality with which the pupils were provided with writing materials in the factory schools as compared with the Zemstvoand Government schools. And for all this the school was indebted, in his opinion, not to the heads of the firm, who lived abroad and scarcely knew of its existence, but to a man who, in spite of his German origin and Lutheran faith, was a Russian at heart.
Sysoev spoke at length, with pauses to get his breath and with pretensions to rhetoric, and his speech was boring and unpleasant. He several times referred to certain enemies of his, tried to drop hints, repeated himself, coughed, and flourished his fingers unbecomingly. At last he was exhausted and in a perspiration and he began talking jerkily, in a low voice as though to himself, and finished his speech not quite coherently: 'And so I propose the health of Bruni, that is Adolf Andreyitch, who is here, among us . . . generally speaking . . . you understand . . .'
When he finished everyone gave a faint sigh, as though someone had sprinkled cold water and cleared the air. Bruni alone apparently had no unpleasant feeling. Beaming and rolling his sentimental eyes, the German shook Sysoev's hand with feeling and was again as friendly as a dog.
'Oh, I thank you,' he said, with an emphasis on the
'I must sincerely own that your school is really exceptional,' said the inspector. 'Don't think this is flattery. Anyway, I have never come across another like it in my life. As I sat at the examination I was full of admiration. . . . Wonderful children! They know a great deal and answer brightly, and at the same time they are somehow special, unconstrained, sincere. . . . One can see that they love you, Fyodor Lukitch. You are a schoolmaster to the marrow of your bones. You must have been born a teacher. You have all the gifts -- innate vocation, long experience, and love for your work. . . . It's simply amazing, considering the weak state of your health, what energy, what understanding . . . what perseverance, do you understand, what confidence you have! Some one in the school committee said truly that you were a poet in your work. . . . Yes, a poet you are!'
And all present at the dinner began as one man talking of Sysoev's extraordinary talent. And as though a dam had been burst, there followed a flood of sincere, enthusiastic words such as men do not utter when they are
