in some of the other lines. . . . You count them. And if you think I don't put enough in the line, you can take something off my pay.'
'Oh dear, that's not the point. You have no delicacy, really. . . . At the least thing you drag in money. The great thing is to be exact, Ivan Matveyitch, to be exact is the great thing. You ought to train yourself to be exact.'
The maidservant brings in a tray with two glasses of tea on it, and a basket of rusks. . . . Ivan Matveyitch takes his glass awkwardly with both hands, and at once begins drinking it. The tea is too hot. To avoid burning his mouth Ivan Matveyitch tries to take a tiny sip. He eats one rusk, then a second, then a third, and, looking sideways, with embarrassment, at the man of learning, timidly stretches after a fourth. . . . The noise he makes in swallowing, the relish with which he smacks his lips, and the expression of hungry greed in his raised eyebrows irritate the man of learning.
'Make haste and finish, time is precious.'
'You dictate, I can drink and write at the same time. . . . I must confess I was hungry.'
'I should think so after your walk!'
'Yes, and what wretched weather! In our parts there is a scent of spring by now. . . . There are puddles everywhere; the snow is melting.'
'You are a southerner, I suppose?'
'From the Don region. . . . It's quite spring with us by March. Here it is frosty, everyone's in a fur coat, . . . but there you can see the grass . . . it's dry everywhere, and one can even catch tarantulas.'
'And what do you catch tarantulas for?'
'Oh! . . . to pass the time . . .' says Ivan Matveyitch, and he sighs. 'It's fun catching them. You fix a bit of pitch on a thread, let it down into their hole and begin hitting the tarantula on the back with the pitch, and the brute gets cross, catches hold of the pitch with his claws, and gets stuck. . . . And what we used to do with them! We used to put a basinful of them together and drop a bihorka in with them.'
'What is a bihorka?'
'That's another spider, very much the same as a tarantula. In a fight one of them can kill a hundred tarantulas.'
'H'm! . . . But we must write, . . . Where did we stop?'
The man of learning dictates another twenty lines, then sits plunged in meditation.
Ivan Matveyitch, waiting while the other cogitates, sits and, craning his neck, puts the collar of his shirt to rights. His tie will not set properly, the stud has come out, and the collar keeps coming apart.
'H'm! . . .' says the man of learning. 'Well, haven't you found a job yet, Ivan Matveyitch?'
'No. And how is one to find one? I am thinking, you know, of volunteering for the army. But my father advises my going into a chemist's.'
'H'm! . . . But it would be better for you to go into the university. The examination is difficult, but with patience and hard work you could get through. Study, read more. . . . Do you read much?'
'Not much, I must own . . .' says Ivan Matveyitch, lighting a cigarette.
'Have you read Turgenev?'
'N-no. . . .'
'And Gogol?'
'Gogol. H'm! . . . Gogol. . . . No, I haven't read him!'
'Ivan Matveyitch! Aren't you ashamed? Aie! aie! You are such a nice fellow, so much that is original in you . . . you haven't even read Gogol! You must read him! I will give you his works! It's essential to read him! We shall quarrel if you don't!'
Again a silence follows. The man of learning meditates, half reclining on a soft lounge, and Ivan Matveyitch, leaving his collar in peace, concentrates his whole attention on his boots. He has not till then noticed that two big puddles have been made by the snow melting off his boots on the floor. He is ashamed.
'I can't get on to-day . . .' mutters the man of learning. 'I suppose you are fond of catching birds, too, Ivan Matveyitch?'
'That's in autumn, . . . I don't catch them here, but there at home
I always did.'
'To be sure . . . very good. But we must write, though.'
The man of learning gets up resolutely and begins dictating, but after ten lines sits down on the lounge again.
'No. . . . Perhaps we had better put it off till to-morrow morning,' he says. 'Come to-morrow morning, only come early, at nine o'clock. God preserve you from being late!'
Ivan Matveyitch lays down his pen, gets up from the table and sits in another chair. Five minutes pass in silence, and he begins to feel it is time for him to go, that he is in the way; but in the man of learning's study it is so snug and light and warm, and the impression of the nice rusks and sweet tea is still so fresh that there is a pang at his heart at the mere thought of home. At home there is poverty, hunger, cold, his grumbling father, scoldings, and here it is so quiet and unruffled, and interest even is taken in his tarantulas and birds.
The man of learning looks at his watch and takes up a book.
'So you will give me Gogol?' says Ivan Matveyitch, getting up.
'Yes, yes! But why are you in such a hurry, my dear boy? Sit down and tell me something . . .'
Ivan Matveyitch sits down and smiles broadly. Almost every evening he sits in this study and always feels something extraordinarily soft, attracting him, as it were akin, in the voice and the glance of the man of learning. There are moments when he even fancies that the man of learning is becoming attached to him, used to him, and that if he scolds him for being late, it's simply because he misses his chatter about tarantulas and how they catch goldfinches on the Don.
ZINOTCHKA
THE party of sportsmen spent the night in a peasant's hut on some newly mown hay. The moon peeped in at the window; from the street came the mournful wheezing of a concertina; from the hay came a sickly sweet, faintly troubling scent. The sportsmen talked about dogs, about women, about first love, and about snipe. After all the ladies of their acquaintance had been picked to pieces, and hundreds of stories had been told, the stoutest of the sportsmen, who looked in the darkness like a haycock, and who talked in the mellow bass of a staff officer, gave a loud yawn and said:
'It is nothing much to be loved; the ladies are created for the purpose of loving us men. But, tell me, has any one of you fellows been hated—passionately, furiously hated? Has any one of you watched the ecstasies of hatred? Eh?'
No answer followed.
'Has no one, gentlemen?' asked the staff officer's bass voice. 'But I, now, have been hated, hated by a pretty girl, and have been able to study the symptoms of first hatred directed against myself. It was the first, because it was something exactly the converse of first love. What I am going to tell, however, happened when I knew nothing about love or hate. I was eight at the time, but that made no difference; in this case it was not
''Yes. We breathe in oxygen; now tell me, Petya, what do we breathe out?'
''Carbonic acid gas,' I answered, looking towards the same window.
''Right,' assented Zinotchka. 'Plants, on the contrary, breathe in carbonic acid gas, and breathe out oxygen. Carbonic acid gas is contained in seltzer water, and in the fumes from the samovar. . . . It is a very noxious gas. Near Naples there is the so-called Cave of Dogs, which contains carbonic acid gas; a dog dropped into it is suffocated and dies.'
'This luckless Cave of Dogs near Naples is a chemical marvel beyond which no governess ventures to go. Zinotchka always hotly maintained the usefulness of natural science, but I doubt if she knew any chemistry beyond
