quick patter— for instance, the phrase: ‘‘I wish you, sir, all the best, sir’’— sounded as if someone was lashing the air with a whip: ‘‘Whis-s-s-s.’’
Laptev soon became bored with it all and wanted to go home, but it was awkward to leave. Out of propriety, he had to spend at least two hours in the warehouse. He stepped away from the counter and began asking Makeichev if the summer had gone well and whether there was any news, and the man answered deferentially without looking him in the eye. A boy, crop-headed, in a gray smock, handed Laptev a glass of tea without a saucer; a little later another boy, passing by, stumbled against a crate and almost fell, and the staid Makeichev suddenly made a terrible, wicked face, a fiendish face, and shouted at him:
‘‘Watch your feet!’’
The salesclerks were glad that the young master had married and finally come back, they looked at him affably and with curiosity, and each of them, in passing, considered it his duty respectfully to say something pleasant to him. But Laptev was convinced that it was all insincere and that they flattered him because they were afraid. He could never forget how, fifteen years ago, one salesclerk, becoming mentally ill, ran outside barefoot in nothing but his underwear and, shaking his fist at the masters’ windows, shouted that they were torturing him; and when the poor man recovered later, they laughed at him for a long time and reminded him of how he had shouted ‘‘Plantators!’’ instead of ‘‘Exploiters.’’ In general, the Laptevs’ employees had a bad life, and the whole market had long been talking about it. Worst of all was that old Fyodor Stepanych held to some sort of Asiatic policy in regard to them. Thus, no one knew what salary his favorites, Pochatkin and Makeichev, received; they received three thousand a year including bonuses, not more, but he pretended that he paid them seven; bonuses were given annually to all the salesclerks, but in secret, so that, out of vanity, someone who received little would have to say he had received a lot; no boy ever knew when he would be promoted to salesclerk; no employee knew whether the master was pleased with him or not. Nothing was directly forbidden, and therefore, the salesclerks did not know what was allowed and what was not. It was not forbidden to marry, but they did not marry, for fear of displeasing the master and losing their jobs. They were allowed to have acquaintances and pay visits, but the gates were locked at nine o’clock in the evening, and every morning the master looked all the employees over suspiciously and tested whether any of them smelled of vodka: ‘‘Go on, breathe!’’
On every feast day, the employees were obliged to attend the early liturgy and stand in church so that the master could see them all. Fasts were strictly observed. On festive days, for instance, the name day of the master or one of his family members, the salesclerks had to take up a collection and offer him a cake from Fley’s or an album. They lived on the ground floor of the house on Pyatnitskaya or in the wing, three to four men to a room, and at dinner they all ate from the same bowl, though each of them had a plate in front of him. If one of the masters came in during dinner, they all stood up.
Laptev was aware that only those among them who had been corrupted by the old man’s tutelage could seriously consider him a benefactor; the rest saw in him an enemy and a ‘‘plantator.’’ Now, after six months’ absence, he did not see any changes for the better; there was even something new that boded no good. His brother Fyodor, who used to be quiet, pensive, and extremely tactful, now ran about the warehouse with the look of a very occupied and businesslike man, with a pencil behind his ear, patting customers on the shoulder, and shouting ‘‘Friends!’’ to the salesclerks. Apparently he was playing some sort of role, and Alexei did not recognize him in this new role.
The old man’s voice boomed incessantly. Being unoccupied, the old man was instructing the customer on how he ought to live and conduct his affairs, and kept setting himself up as an example. This boasting, this authoritative, overbearing tone, Laptev had heard ten and fifteen and twenty years ago. The old man adored himself; to listen to him, he had made the happiness of his late wife and her family, provided for his children, showered his salesclerks and employees with benefactions, and had the whole street and all his acquaintances eternally praying to God for him; whatever he did was all very good, and if things were not going well for people, it was only because they did not want to take his advice; without his advice, nothing could succeed. In church he always stood in front of everyone and even made observations to the priests when, in his opinion, they were not serving correctly, and thought it was pleasing to God, because God loved him.
By two o’clock everybody in the warehouse had gotten down to business, except the old man, who went on booming. Laptev, so as not to stand there doing nothing, took some braid from a maker and dismissed her, then heard out a customer, a merchant from Vologda, and told a salesclerk to take care of him.
‘‘T, V, A!’’ came from all sides (letters stood for prices and numbers for goods). ‘‘R, I, T!’’
Going out, Laptev said good-bye only to Fyodor.
‘‘Tomorrow I’ll come to Pyatnitskaya with my wife,’’ he said, ‘‘but I warn you that if father says just one rude word to her, I won’t stay there for a minute.’’
‘‘And you’re still the same,’’ sighed Fyodor. ‘‘Married, but unchanged. You must be indulgent to the old man, brother. So, then, tomorrow at around eleven. We’ll be waiting impatiently. Come straight from the liturgy.’’
‘‘I don’t go to the liturgy.’’
‘‘Well, it makes no difference. Above all, no later than eleven, so that we’ll have time to pray to God and have lunch together. I send greetings to my little sister and kiss her hand. I have a presentiment that I’ll come to love her,’’ Fyodor added quite sincerely. ‘‘I’m envious, brother!’’ he cried when Alexei was already going downstairs.
‘‘And why is it that he keeps cringing somehow bashfully, as if he feels naked?’’ thought Laptev, walking down Nikolskaya Street and trying to understand the change that had taken place in Fyodor. ‘‘And he’s got some kind of new language: brother, dear brother, God has sent us mercy, we’ll pray to God—just like Shchedrin’s Iudushka.’’ 8
VI
THE NEXT DAY, Sunday, at eleven o’clock, he was driving down Pyatnitskaya in a light one-horse carriage. He feared some sort of escapade on Fyodor Stepanych’s part and had an unpleasant feeling beforehand. Yulia Sergeevna, after spending two nights in her husband’s home, already considered her marriage a mistake, a misfortune, and if she had had to live with her husband not in Moscow but somewhere in another town, it seemed to her she could not have endured this horror. But Moscow diverted her; she liked the streets, the houses, and the churches very much, and if it had been possible to ride around Moscow in these excellent carriages, with expensive horses, to ride all day long, from morning to evening, and, while going very fast, to breathe the cool autumnal air, perhaps she would not have felt so miserable.
The driver reined in the horse near a white, recently stuccoed two-story house and began turning to the right. Here they were expected. By the gate stood a porter in a new caftan, high boots, and galoshes, and two policemen; the whole space from the middle of the street to the gate, and then through the yard to the porch, had been sprinkled with fresh sand. The porter took off his hat, the policemen saluted. Fyodor met them by the porch with a very serious face.
‘‘I am very glad to make your acquaintance, little sister,’’ he said, kissing Yulia’s hand. ‘‘You are welcome.’’
