No More Learning

. . twelve
. . . thirteen," and so on. "Sixteen--five years! Supposing it is at four
per cent. --five times twelve is sixty; yes, to that sixty . . . well, in
five years we may assume it will be four hundred. Yes! . . . But he won't
stick to four per cent. , the rascal. He can get eight or ten. Well, five
hundred, let us say, five hundred at least . . . that's certain; well, say
a little more for frills. H'm! . . . "

His hesitation was at an end, he blew his nose and was on the point of
going out of the room when he suddenly glanced at the little girl and
stopped short. He did not see me behind the pots of greenery. It seemed
to me that he was greatly excited. Either his calculations had affected
his imagination or something else, for he rubbed his hands and could
hardly stand still. This excitement reached its utmost limit when he
stopped and bent another resolute glance at the future heiress. He was
about to move forward, but first looked round, then moving on tiptoe, as
though he felt guilty, he advanced towards the children. He approached
with a little smile, bent down and kissed her on the head. The child,
not expecting this attack, uttered a cry of alarm.

"What are you doing here, sweet child? " he asked in a whisper, looking
round and patting the girl's cheek.

"We are playing. "

"Ah! With him? " Yulian Mastakovitch looked askance at the boy. "You had
better go into the drawing-room, my dear," he said to him.

The boy looked at him open-eyed and did not utter a word. Yulian
Mastakovitch looked round him again, and again bent down to the little
girl.

"And what is this you've got--a dolly, dear child? " he asked.

"Yes, a dolly," answered the child, frowning, and a little shy.

"A dolly . . . and do you know, dear child, what your dolly is made of? "

"I don't know . . . " the child answered in a whisper, hanging her head.

"It's made of rags, darling. You had better go into the drawing-room to
your playmates, boy," said Yulian Mastakovitch, looking sternly at the
boy. The boy and girl frowned and clutched at each other. They did not
want to be separated.

"And do you know why they gave you that doll? " asked Yulian
Mastakovitch, dropping his voice to a softer and softer tone.

"I don't know. "

"Because you have been a sweet and well-behaved child all the week. "

At this point Yulian Mastakovitch, more excited than ever, speaking in
most dulcet tones, asked at last, in a hardly audible voice choked with
emotion and impatience--

"And will you love me, dear little girl, when I come and see your papa
and mamma? "

Saying this, Yulian Mastakovitch tried once more to kiss "the dear
little girl," but the red-haired boy, seeing that the little girl was on
the point of tears, clutched her hand and began whimpering from sympathy
for her. Yulian Mastakovitch was angry in earnest.

"Go away, go away from here, go away! " he said to the boy. "Go into the
drawing-room! Go in there to your playmates! "

"No, he needn't, he needn't! You go away," said the little girl. "Leave
him alone, leave him alone," she said, almost crying.

Some one made a sound at the door. Yulian Mastakovitch instantly raised
his majestic person and took alarm. But the red-haired boy was even more
alarmed than Yulian Mastakovitch; he abandoned the little girl and,
slinking along by the wall, stole out of the parlour into the
dining-room. To avoid arousing suspicion, Yulian Mastakovitch, too, went
into the dining-room. He was as red as a lobster, and, glancing into the
looking-glass, seemed to be ashamed at himself. He was perhaps vexed
with himself for his impetuosity and hastiness. Possibly, he was at
first so much impressed by his calculations, so inspired and fascinated
by them, that in spite of his seriousness and dignity he made up his
mind to behave like a boy, and directly approach the object of his
attentions, even though she could not be really the object of his
attentions for another five years at least. I followed the estimable
gentleman into the dining-room and there beheld a strange spectacle.
Yulian Mastakovitch, flushed with vexation and anger, was frightening
the red-haired boy, who, retreating from him, did not know where to run
in his terror.

"Go away; what are you doing here? Go away, you scamp; are you after the
fruit here, eh? Get along, you naughty boy! Get along, you sniveller, to
your playmates! "

The panic-stricken boy in his desperation tried creeping under the
table. Then his persecutor, in a fury, took out his large batiste
handkerchief and began flicking it under the table at the child, who
kept perfectly quiet. It must be observed that Yulian Mastakovitch was a
little inclined to be fat. He was a sleek, red-faced, solidly built man,
paunchy, with thick legs; what is called a fine figure of a man, round
as a nut. He was perspiring, breathless, and fearfully flushed. At last
he was almost rigid, so great was his indignation and perhaps--who
knows? --his jealousy. I burst into loud laughter. Yulian Mastakovitch
turned round and, in spite of all his consequence, was overcome with
confusion. At that moment from the opposite door our host came in. The
boy crept out from under the table and wiped his elbows and his knees.
Yulian Mastakovitch hastened to put to his nose the handkerchief which
he was holding in his hand by one end.

Our host looked at the three of us in some perplexity; but as a man who
knew something of life, and looked at it from a serious point of view,
he at once availed himself of the chance of catching his visitor by
himself.

"Here, this is the boy," he said, pointing to the red-haired boy, "for
whom I had the honour to solicit your influence. "

"Ah! " said Yulian Mastakovitch, who had hardly quite recovered himself.

"The son of my children's governess," said our host, in a tone of a
petitioner, "a poor woman, the widow of an honest civil servant; and
therefore . . . and therefore, Yulian Mastakovitch, if it were possible
. . . "

"Oh, no, no! " Yulian Mastakovitch made haste to answer; "no, excuse me,
Filip Alexyevitch, it's quite impossible. I've made inquiries; there's
no vacancy, and if there were, there are twenty applicants who have far
more claim than he. . . . I am very sorry, very sorry. . . . "

"What a pity," said our host. "He is a quiet, well-behaved boy. "

"A great rascal, as I notice," answered Yulian Mastakovitch, with a
nervous twist of his lip. "Get along, boy; why are you standing there?
Go to your playmates," he said, addressing the child.

At that point he could not contain himself, and glanced at me out of one
eye. I, too, could not contain myself, and laughed straight in his face.
Yulian Mastakovitch turned away at once, and in a voice calculated to
reach my ear, asked who was that strange young man? They whispered
together and walked out of the room. I saw Yulian Mastakovitch
afterwards shaking his head incredulously as our host talked to him.

After laughing to my heart's content I returned to the drawing-room.
There the great man, surrounded by fathers and mothers of families,
including the host and hostess, was saying something very warmly to a
lady to whom he had just been introduced. The lady was holding by the
hand the little girl with whom Yulian Mastakovitch had had the scene in
the parlour a little while before. Now he was launching into praises and
raptures over the beauty, the talents, the grace and the charming
manners of the charming child. He was unmistakably making up to the
mamma. The mother listened to him almost with tears of delight. The
father's lips were smiling. Our host was delighted at the general
satisfaction. All the guests, in fact, were sympathetically gratified;
even the children's games were checked that they might not hinder the
conversation: the whole atmosphere was saturated with reverence. I heard
afterwards the mamma of the interesting child, deeply touched, beg
Yulian Mastakovitch, in carefully chosen phrases, to do her the special
honour of bestowing upon them the precious gift of his acquaintance, and
heard with what unaffected delight Yulian Mastakovitch accepted the
invitation, and how afterwards the guests, dispersing in different
directions, moving away with the greatest propriety, poured out to one
another the most touchingly flattering comments upon the contractor, his
wife, his little girl, and, above all, upon Yulian Mastakovitch.

"Is that gentleman married? " I asked, almost aloud, of one of my
acquaintances, who was standing nearest to Yulian Mastakovitch. Yulian
Mastakovitch flung a searching and vindictive glance at me.

"No! " answered my acquaintance, chagrined to the bottom of his heart by
the awkwardness of which I had intentionally been guilty. . . .

* * * * *

I passed lately by a certain church; I was struck by the crowd of people
in carriages. I heard people talking of the wedding. It was a cloudy
day, it was beginning to sleet. I made my way through the crowd at the
door and saw the bridegroom. He was a sleek, well-fed, round, paunchy
man, very gorgeously dressed up. He was running fussily about, giving
orders. At last the news passed through the crowd that the bride was
coming. I squeezed my way through the crowd and saw a marvellous beauty,
who could scarcely have reached her first season. But the beauty was
pale and melancholy. She looked preoccupied; I even fancied that her
eyes were red with recent weeping. The classic severity of every feature
of her face gave a certain dignity and seriousness to her beauty. But
through that sternness and dignity, through that melancholy, could be
seen the look of childish innocence; something indescribably naïve,
fluid, youthful, which seemed mutely begging for mercy.

People were saying that she was only just sixteen. Glancing attentively
at the bridegroom, I suddenly recognized him as Yulian Mastakovitch,
whom I had not seen for five years. I looked at her. My God! I began to
squeeze my way as quickly as I could out of the church. I heard people
saying in the crowd that the bride was an heiress, that she had a dowry
of five hundred thousand . . . and a trousseau worth ever so much.

"It was a good stroke of business, though! " I thought as I made my way
into the street.




POLZUNKOV

A STORY


I began to scrutinize the man closely. Even in his exterior there was
something so peculiar that it compelled one, however far away one's
thoughts might be, to fix one's eyes upon him and go off into the most
irrepressible roar of laughter. That is what happened to me. I must
observe that the little man's eyes were so mobile, or perhaps he was so
sensitive to the magnetism of every eye fixed upon him, that he almost
by instinct guessed that he was being observed, turned at once to the
observer and anxiously analysed his expression. His continual mobility,
his turning and twisting, made him look strikingly like a dancing doll.
It was strange! He seemed afraid of jeers, in spite of the fact that he
was almost getting his living by being a buffoon for all the world, and
exposed himself to every buffet in a moral sense and even in a physical
one, judging from the company he was in. Voluntary buffoons are not even
to be pitied. But I noticed at once that this strange creature, this
ridiculous man, was by no means a buffoon by profession. There was still
something gentlemanly in him. His very uneasiness, his continual
apprehensiveness about himself, were actually a testimony in his favour.
It seemed to me that his desire to be obliging was due more to kindness
of heart than to mercenary considerations. He readily allowed them to
laugh their loudest at him and in the most unseemly way, to his face,
but at the same time--and I am ready to take my oath on it--his heart
ached and was sore at the thought that his listeners were so caddishly
brutal as to be capable of laughing, not at anything said or done, but
at him, at his whole being, at his heart, at his head, at his
appearance, at his whole body, flesh and blood. I am convinced that he
felt at that moment all the foolishness of his position; but the protest
died away in his heart at once, though it invariably sprang up again in
the most heroic way. I am convinced that all this was due to nothing
else but a kind heart, and not to fear of the inconvenience of being
kicked out and being unable to borrow money from some one. This
gentleman was for ever borrowing money, that is, he asked for alms in
that form, when after playing the fool and entertaining them at his
expense he felt in a certain sense entitled to borrow money from them.
But, good heavens! what a business the borrowing was! And with what a
countenance he asked for the loan! I could not have imagined that on
such a small space as the wrinkled, angular face of that little man room
could be found, at one and the same time, for so many different
grimaces, for such strange, variously characteristic shades of feeling,
such absolutely killing expressions. Everything was there--shame and an
assumption of insolence, and vexation at the sudden flushing of his
face, and anger and fear of failure, and entreaty to be forgiven for
having dared to pester, and a sense of his own dignity, and a still
greater sense of his own abjectness--all this passed over his face like
lightning. For six whole years he had struggled along in God's world in
this way, and so far had been unable to take up a fitting attitude at
the interesting moment of borrowing money! I need not say that he never
could grow callous and completely abject. His heart was too sensitive,
too passionate! I will say more, indeed: in my opinion, he was one of
the most honest and honourable men in the world, but with a little
weakness: of being ready to do anything abject at any one's bidding,
good-naturedly and disinterestedly, simply to oblige a fellow-creature.
In short, he was what is called "a rag" in the fullest sense of the
word. The most absurd thing was, that he was dressed like any one else,
neither worse nor better, tidily, even with a certain elaborateness, and
actually had pretentions to respectability and personal dignity. This
external equality and internal inequality, his uneasiness about himself
and at the same time his continual self-depreciation--all this was
strikingly incongruous and provocative of laughter and pity. If he had
been convinced in his heart (and in spite of his experience it did
happen to him at moments to believe this) that his audience were the
most good-natured people in the world, who were simply laughing at
something amusing, and not at the sacrifice of his personal dignity, he
would most readily have taken off his coat, put it on wrong side
outwards, and have walked about the streets in that attire for the
diversion of others and his own gratification. But equality he could
never anyhow attain. Another trait: the queer fellow was proud, and
even, by fits and starts, when it was not too risky, generous.
It was
worth seeing and hearing how he could sometimes, not sparing himself,
consequently with pluck, almost with heroism, dispose of one of his
patrons who had infuriated him to madness. But that was at moments. . . .
In short, he was a martyr in the fullest sense of the word, but the most
useless and consequently the most comic martyr.

There was a general discussion going on among the guests. All at once I
saw our queer friend jump upon his chair, and call out at the top of his
voice, anxious for the exclusive attention of the company.

"Listen," the master of the house whispered to me. "He sometimes tells
the most curious stories. . . . Does he interest you? "

I nodded and squeezed myself into the group. The sight of a well-dressed
gentleman jumping upon his chair and shouting at the top of his voice
did, in fact, draw the attention of all. Many who did not know the queer
fellow looked at one another in perplexity, the others roared with
laughter.

"I knew Fedosey Nikolaitch. I ought to know Fedosey Nikolaitch better
than any one! " cried the queer fellow from his elevation. "Gentlemen,
allow me to tell you something. I can tell you a good story about
Fedosey Nikolaitch! I know a story--exquisite! "

"Tell it, Osip Mihalitch, tell it. "

"Tell it. "

"Listen. "

"Listen, listen. "

"I begin; but, gentlemen, this is a peculiar story. . . . "

"Very good, very good. "

"It's a comic story. "

"Very good, excellent, splendid. Get on! "

"It is an episode in the private life of your humble. . . . "

"But why do you trouble yourself to announce that it's comic? "

"And even somewhat tragic! "

"Eh? ? ? ! "

"In short, the story which it will afford you all pleasure to hear me
now relate, gentlemen--the story, in consequence of which I have come
into company so interesting and profitable. . . . "

"No puns! "

"This story. "

"In short the story--make haste and finish the introduction. The story,
which has its value," a fair-haired young man with moustaches pronounced
in a husky voice, dropping his hand into his coat pocket and, as though
by chance, pulling out a purse instead of his handkerchief.

"The story, my dear sirs, after which I should like to see many of you
in my place. And, finally, the story, in consequence of which I have not
married. "

"Married! A wife! Polzunkov tried to get married! ! "

"I confess I should like to see Madame Polzunkov. "

"Allow me to inquire the name of the would-be Madame Polzunkov," piped a
youth, making his way up to the storyteller.

"And so for the first chapter, gentlemen. It was just six years ago, in
spring, the thirty-first of March--note the date, gentlemen--on the
eve. . . . "

"Of the first of April! " cried a young man with ringlets.

"You are extraordinarily quick at guessing. It was evening. Twilight was
gathering over the district town of N. , the moon was about to float out
. . . everything in proper style, in fact. And so in the very late
twilight I, too, floated out of my poor lodging on the sly--after taking
leave of my restricted granny, now dead. Excuse me, gentlemen, for
making use of such a fashionable expression, which I heard for the last
time from Nikolay Nikolaitch. But my granny was indeed restricted: she
was blind, dumb, deaf, stupid--everything you please. . . . I confess I was
in a tremor, I was prepared for great deeds; my heart was beating like a
kitten's when some bony hand clutches it by the scruff of the neck. "

"Excuse me, Monsieur Polzunkov. "

"What do you want? "

"Tell it more simply; don't over-exert yourself, please! "

"All right," said Osip Mihalitch, a little taken aback. "I went into the
house of Fedosey Nikolaitch (the house that he had bought). Fedosey
Nikolaitch, as you know, is not a mere colleague, but the full-blown
head of a department. I was announced, and was at once shown into the
study. I can see it now; the room was dark, almost dark, but candles
were not brought. Behold, Fedosey Nikolaitch walks in. There he and I
were left in the darkness. . . . "

"Whatever happened to you? " asked an officer.

"What do you suppose? " asked Polzunkov, turning promptly, with a
convulsively working face, to the young man with ringlets. "Well,
gentlemen, a strange circumstance occurred, though indeed there was
nothing strange in it: it was what is called an everyday affair--I
simply took out of my pocket a roll of paper . . . and he a roll of
paper. "

"Paper notes? "

"Paper notes; and we exchanged. "

"I don't mind betting that there's a flavour of bribery about it,"
observed a respectably dressed, closely cropped young gentleman.

"Bribery! " Polzunkov caught him up.

"'Oh, may I be a Liberal,
Such as many I have seen! '

If you, too, when it is your lot to serve in the provinces, do not warm
your hands at your country's hearth. . . . For as an author said: 'Even the
smoke of our native land is sweet to us. ' She is our Mother, gentlemen,
our Mother Russia; we are her babes, and so we suck her! "

There was a roar of laughter.

"Only would you believe it, gentlemen, I have never taken bribes? " said
Polzunkov, looking round at the whole company distrustfully.

A prolonged burst of Homeric laughter drowned Polzunkov's words in
guffaws.

"It really is so, gentlemen. . . . "

But here he stopped, still looking round at every one with a strange
expression of face; perhaps--who knows? --at that moment the thought came
into his mind that he was more honest than many of all that honourable
company. . . . Anyway, the serious expression of his face did not pass away
till the general merriment was quite over.

"And so," Polzunkov began again when all was still, "though I never did
take bribes, yet that time I transgressed; I put in my pocket a bribe
. . . from a bribe-taker . . . that is, there were certain papers in my
hands which, if I had cared to send to a certain person, it would have
gone ill with Fedosey Nikolaitch. "

"So then he bought them from you? "

"He did. "

"Did he give much? "

"He gave as much as many a man nowadays would sell his conscience for
complete, with all its variations . . . if only he could get anything for
it. But I felt as though I were scalded when I put the money in my
pocket. I really don't understand what always comes over me,
gentlemen--but I was more dead than alive, my lips twitched and my legs
trembled; well, I was to blame, to blame, entirely to blame. I was
utterly conscience-stricken; I was ready to beg Fedosey Nikolaitch's
forgiveness. "

"Well, what did he do--did he forgive you? "

"But I didn't ask his forgiveness. . . . I only mean that that is how I
felt. Then I have a sensitive heart, you know. I saw he was looking me
straight in the face. 'Have you no fear of God, Osip Mihailitch? ' said
he. Well, what could I do? From a feeling of propriety I put my head on
one side and I flung up my hands. 'In what way,' said I, 'have I no fear
of God, Fedosey Nikolaitch? ' But I just said that from a feeling of
propriety. . . . I was ready to sink into the earth. 'After being so long a
friend of our family, after being, I may say, like a son--and who knows
what Heaven had in store for us, Osip Mihailitch? --and all of a sudden
to inform against me--to think of that now! . . . What am I to think of
mankind after that, Osip Mihailitch? ' Yes, gentlemen, he did read me a
lecture! 'Come,' he said, 'you tell me what I am to think of mankind
after that, Osip Mihailitch. ' 'What is he to think? ' I thought; and do
you know, there was a lump in my throat, and my voice was quivering, and
knowing my hateful weakness, I snatched up my hat. 'Where are you off
to, Osip Mihailitch? Surely on the eve of such a day you cannot bear
malice against me? What wrong have I done you? . . . ' 'Fedosey Nikolaitch,'
I said, 'Fedosey Nikolaitch. . . . ' In fact, I melted, gentlemen, I melted
like a sugar-stick. And the roll of notes that was lying in my pocket,
that, too, seemed screaming out: 'You ungrateful brigand, you accursed
thief! ' It seemed to weigh a hundredweight . . . (if only it had weighed a
hundredweight! ). . . . 'I see,' says Fedosey Nikolaitch, 'I see your
penitence . . . you know to-morrow. . . .