'You live like wild beasts, you don't read the newspapers and take no notice of what's published, and there's so much that is interesting in the papers. If anything happens it's all known at once, nothing is hidden! How happy I am! Oh, Lord! You know it's only celebrated people whose names are published in the papers, and now they have gone and published mine!'
'What do you mean? Where?'
The papa turned pale. The mamma glanced at the holy image and crossed herself. The schoolboys jumped out of bed and, just as they were, in short nightshirts, went up to their brother.
'Yes! My name has been published! Now all Russia knows of me! Keep the paper, mamma, in memory of it! We will read it sometimes! Look!'
Mitya pulled out of his pocket a copy of the paper, gave it to his father, and pointed with his finger to a passage marked with blue pencil.
'Read it!'
The father put on his spectacles.
'Do read it!'
The mamma glanced at the holy image and crossed herself. The papa cleared his throat and began to read: 'At eleven o'clock on the evening of the 29th of December, a registration clerk of the name of Dmitry Kuldarov . . .'
'You see, you see! Go on!'
'. . . a registration clerk of the name of Dmitry Kuldarov, coming from the beershop in Kozihin's buildings in Little Bronnaia in an intoxicated condition. . .'
'That's me and Semyon Petrovitch. . . . It's all described exactly!
Go on! Listen!'
'. . . intoxicated condition, slipped and fell under a horse belonging to a sledge-driver, a peasant of the village of Durikino in the Yuhnovsky district, called Ivan Drotov. The frightened horse, stepping over Kuldarov and drawing the sledge over him, together with a Moscow merchant of the second guild called Stepan Lukov, who was in it, dashed along the street and was caught by some house-porters. Kuldarov, at first in an unconscious condition, was taken to the police station and there examined by the doctor. The blow he had received on the back of his head. . .'
'It was from the shaft, papa. Go on! Read the rest!'
'. . . he had received on the back of his head turned out not to be serious. The incident was duly reported. Medical aid was given to the injured man. . . .'
'They told me to foment the back of my head with cold water. You have read it now? Ah! So you see. Now it's all over Russia! Give it here!'
Mitya seized the paper, folded it up and put it into his pocket.
'I'll run round to the Makarovs and show it to them. . . . I must show it to the Ivanitskys too, Natasya Ivanovna, and Anisim Vassilyitch. . . . I'll run! Good-bye!'
Mitya put on his cap with its cockade and, joyful and triumphant, ran into the street.
LADIES
FYODOR PETROVITCH the Director of Elementary Schools in the N. District, who considered himself a just and generous man, was one day interviewing in his office a schoolmaster called Vremensky.
'No, Mr. Vremensky,' he was saying, 'your retirement is inevitable. You cannot continue your work as a schoolmaster with a voice like that! How did you come to lose it?'
'I drank cold beer when I was in a perspiration. . .' hissed the schoolmaster.
'What a pity! After a man has served fourteen years, such a calamity all at once! The idea of a career being ruined by such a trivial thing. What are you intending to do now?'
The schoolmaster made no answer.
'Are you a family man?' asked the director.
'A wife and two children, your Excellency . . .' hissed the schoolmaster.
A silence followed. The director got up from the table and walked to and fro in perturbation.
'I cannot think what I am going to do with you!' he said. 'A teacher you cannot be, and you are not yet entitled to a pension. . . . To abandon you to your fate, and leave you to do the best you can, is rather awkward. We look on you as one of our men, you have served fourteen years, so it is our business to help you. . . . But how are we to help you? What can I do for you? Put yourself in my place: what can I do for you?'
A silence followed; the director walked up and down, still thinking, and Vremensky, overwhelmed by his trouble, sat on the edge of his chair, and he, too, thought. All at once the director began beaming, and even snapped his fingers.
'I wonder I did not think of it before!' he began rapidly. 'Listen, this is what I can offer you. Next week our secretary at the Home is retiring. If you like, you can have his place! There you are!'
Vremensky, not expecting such good fortune, beamed too.
'That's capital,' said the director. 'Write the application to-day.'
Dismissing Vremensky, Fyodor Petrovitch felt relieved and even gratified: the bent figure of the hissing schoolmaster was no longer confronting him, and it was agreeable to recognize that in offering a vacant post to Vremensky he had acted fairly and conscientiously, like a good-hearted and thoroughly decent person. But this agreeable state of mind did not last long. When he went home and sat down to dinner his wife, Nastasya Ivanovna, said suddenly:
'Oh yes, I was almost forgetting! Nina Sergeyevna came to see me yesterday and begged for your interest on behalf of a young man. I am told there is a vacancy in our Home. . . .'
'Yes, but the post has already been promised to someone else,' said the director, and he frowned. 'And you know my rule: I never give posts through patronage.'
'I know, but for Nina Sergeyevna, I imagine, you might make an exception. She loves us as though we were relations, and we have never done anything for her. And don't think of refusing, Fedya! You will wound both her and me with your whims.'
'Who is it that she is recommending?'
'Polzuhin!'
'What Polzuhin? Is it that fellow who played Tchatsky at the party on New Year's Day? Is it that gentleman? Not on any account!'
The director left off eating.
'Not on any account!' he repeated. 'Heaven preserve us!'
'But why not?'
'Understand, my dear, that if a young man does not set to work directly, but through women, he must be good for nothing! Why doesn't he come to me himself?'
After dinner the director lay on the sofa in his study and began reading the letters and newspapers he had received.
'Dear Fyodor Petrovitch,' wrote the wife of the Mayor of the town. 'You once said that I knew the human heart and understood people. Now you have an opportunity of verifying this in practice. K. N. Polzuhin, whom I know to be an excellent young man, will call upon you in a day or two to ask you for the post of secretary at our Home. He is a very nice youth. If you take an interest in him you will be convinced of it.' And so on.
'On no account!' was the director's comment. 'Heaven preserve me!'
After that, not a day passed without the director's receiving letters recommending Polzuhin. One fine morning Polzuhin himself, a stout young man with a close-shaven face like a jockey's, in a new black suit, made his appearance. . . .
'I see people on business not here but at the office,' said the director drily, on hearing his request.
'Forgive me, your Excellency, but our common acquaintances advised me to come here.'
'H'm!' growled the director, looking with hatred at the pointed toes of the young man's shoes. 'To the best of my belief your father is a man of property and you are not in want,' he said. 'What induces you to ask for this post? The salary is very trifling!'
