'Be so good as not to beat me,' he said, ducking. 'Moisey Ilyitch has sent me again. 'Don't be afraid,' he said; 'go to Yakov again and tell him,' he said, 'we can't get on without him.' There is a wedding on Wednesday. . . . Ye —-es! Mr. Shapovalov is marrying his daughter to a good man. . . . And it will be a grand wedding, oo-oo!' added the Jew, screwing up one eye.
'I can't come,' said Yakov, breathing hard. 'I'm ill, brother.'
And he began playing again, and the tears gushed from his eyes on to the fiddle. Rothschild listened attentively, standing sideways to him and folding his arms on his chest. The scared and perplexed expression on his face, little by little, changed to a look of woe and suffering; he rolled his eyes as though he were experiencing an agonizing ecstasy, and articulated, 'Vachhh!' and tears slowly ran down his cheeks and trickled on his greenish coat.
And Yakov lay in bed all the rest of the day grieving. In the evening, when the priest confessing him asked, Did he remember any special sin he had committed? straining his failing memory he thought again of Marfa's unhappy face, and the despairing shriek of the Jew when the dog bit him, and said, hardly audibly, 'Give the fiddle to Rothschild.'
'Very well,' answered the priest.
And now everyone in the town asks where Rothschild got such a fine fiddle. Did he buy it or steal it? Or perhaps it had come to him as a pledge. He gave up the flute long ago, and now plays nothing but the fiddle. As plaintive sounds flow now from his bow, as came once from his flute, but when he tries to repeat what Yakov played, sitting in the doorway, the effect is something so sad and sorrowful that his audience weep, and he himself rolls his eyes and articulates 'Vachhh! . . .' And this new air was so much liked in the town that the merchants and officials used to be continually sending for Rothschild and making him play it over and over again a dozen times.
IVAN MATVEYITCH
BETWEEN five and six in the evening. A fairly well-known man of learning—we will call him simply the man of learning—is sitting in his study nervously biting his nails.
'It's positively revolting,' he says, continually looking at his watch. 'It shows the utmost disrespect for another man's time and work. In England such a person would not earn a farthing, he would die of hunger. You wait a minute, when you do come . . . .'
And feeling a craving to vent his wrath and impatience upon someone, the man of learning goes to the door leading to his wife's room and knocks.
'Listen, Katya,' he says in an indignant voice. 'If you see Pyotr Danilitch, tell him that decent people don't do such things. It's abominable! He recommends a secretary, and does not know the sort of man he is recommending! The wretched boy is two or three hours late with unfailing regularity every day. Do you call that a secretary? Those two or three hours are more precious to me than two or three years to other people. When he does come I will swear at him like a dog, and won't pay him and will kick him out. It's no use standing on ceremony with people like that!'
'You say that every day, and yet he goes on coming and coming.'
'But to-day I have made up my mind. I have lost enough through him.
You must excuse me, but I shall swear at him like a cabman.'
At last a ring is heard. The man of learning makes a grave face; drawing himself up, and, throwing back his head, he goes into the entry. There his amanuensis Ivan Matveyitch, a young man of eighteen, with a face oval as an egg and no moustache, wearing a shabby, mangy overcoat and no goloshes, is already standing by the hatstand. He is in breathless haste, and scrupulously wipes his huge clumsy boots on the doormat, trying as he does so to conceal from the maidservant a hole in his boot through which a white sock is peeping. Seeing the man of learning he smiles with that broad, prolonged, somewhat foolish smile which is seen only on the faces of children or very good-natured people.
'Ah, good evening!' he says, holding out a big wet hand. 'Has your sore throat gone?'
'Ivan Matveyitch,' says the man of learning in a shaking voice, stepping back and clasping his hands together. 'Ivan Matveyitch.'
Then he dashes up to the amanuensis, clutches him by the shoulders, and begins feebly shaking him.
'What a way to treat me!' he says with despair in his voice. 'You dreadful, horrid fellow, what a way to treat me! Are you laughing at me, are you jeering at me? Eh?'
Judging from the smile which still lingered on his face Ivan Matveyitch had expected a very different reception, and so, seeing the man of learning's countenance eloquent of indignation, his oval face grows longer than ever, and he opens his mouth in amazement.
'What is . . . what is it?' he asks.
'And you ask that?' the man of learning clasps his hands. 'You know how precious time is to me, and you are so late. You are two hours late! . . . Have you no fear of God?'
'I haven't come straight from home,' mutters Ivan Matveyitch, untying his scarf irresolutely. 'I have been at my aunt's name-day party, and my aunt lives five miles away. . . . If I had come straight from home, then it would have been a different thing.'
'Come, reflect, Ivan Matveyitch, is there any logic in your conduct? Here you have work to do, work at a fixed time, and you go flying off after name-day parties and aunts! But do make haste and undo your wretched scarf! It's beyond endurance, really!'
The man of learning dashes up to the amanuensis again and helps him to disentangle his scarf.
'You are done up like a peasant woman, . . . Come along, . . .
Please make haste!'
Blowing his nose in a dirty, crumpled-up handkerchief and pulling down his grey reefer jacket, Ivan Matveyitch goes through the hall and the drawing-room to the study. There a place and paper and even cigarettes had been put ready for him long ago.
'Sit down, sit down,' the man of learning urges him on, rubbing his hands impatiently. 'You are an unsufferable person. . . . You know the work has to be finished by a certain time, and then you are so late. One is forced to scold you. Come, write, . . . Where did we stop?'
Ivan Matveyitch smooths his bristling cropped hair and takes up his pen. The man of learning walks up and down the room, concentrates himself, and begins to dictate:
'The fact is . . . comma . . . that so to speak fundamental forms . . . have you written it? . . . forms are conditioned entirely by the essential nature of those principles . . . comma . . . which find in them their expression and can only be embodied in them . . . . New line, . . . There's a stop there, of course. . . . More independence is found . . . is found . . . by the forms which have not so much a political . . . comma . . . as a social character . .'
'The high-school boys have a different uniform now . . . a grey one,' said Ivan Matveyitch, 'when I was at school it was better: they used to wear regular uniforms.'
'Oh dear, write please!' says the man of learning wrathfully. 'Character . . . have you written it? Speaking of the forms relating to the organization . . . of administrative functions, and not to the regulation of the life of the people . . . comma . . . it cannot be said that they are marked by the nationalism of their forms . . . the last three words in inverted commas. . . . Aie, aie . . . tut, tut . . . so what did you want to say about the high school?'
'That they used to wear a different uniform in my time.'
'Aha! . . . indeed, . . . Is it long since you left the high school?'
'But I told you that yesterday. It is three years since I left school. . . . I left in the fourth class.'
'And why did you give up high school?' asks the man of learning, looking at Ivan Matveyitch's writing.
'Oh, through family circumstances.'
'Must I speak to you again, Ivan Matveyitch? When will you get over your habit of dragging out the lines? There ought not to be less than forty letters in a line.'
'What, do you suppose I do it on purpose?' says Ivan Matveyitch, offended. 'There are more than forty letters
