No More Learning

Undoing the paper round it on the stairs, he looked about him quickly,
and made haste as fast as he could to subtract half of the lawful wages
he had received and conceal it in his boot. Then on the spot, on the
stairs, quite regardless of the fact that he was in bed and asleep, he
made up his mind when he reached home to give his landlady what was due
for board and lodging; then to buy certain necessities, and to show any
one it might concern, as it were casually and unintentionally, that some
of his salary had been deducted, that now he had nothing left to send
his sister-in-law; then to speak with commiseration of his
sister-in-law, to say a great deal about her the next day and the day
after, and ten days later to say something casually again about her
poverty, that his companions might not forget. Making this determination
he observed that Andrey Efimovitch, that everlastingly silent, bald
little man who sat in the office three rooms from where Semyon
Ivanovitch sat, and hadn't said a word to him for twenty years, was
standing on the stairs, that he, too, was counting his silver roubles,
and shaking his head, he said to him: "Money! " "If there's no money
there will be no porridge," he added grimly as he went down the stairs,
and just at the door he ended: "And I have seven children, sir. " Then
the little bald man, probably equally unconscious that he was acting as
a phantom and not as a substantial reality, held up his hand about
thirty inches from the floor, and waving it vertically, muttered that
the eldest was going to school, then glancing with indignation at Semyon
Ivanovitch, as though it were Mr. Prohartchin's fault that he was the
father of seven, pulled his old hat down over his eyes, and with a whisk
of his overcoat he turned to the left and disappeared. Semyon Ivanovitch
was quite frightened, and though he was fully convinced of his own
innocence in regard to the unpleasant accumulation of seven under one
roof, yet it seemed to appear that in fact no one else was to blame but
Semyon Ivanovitch. Panic-stricken he set off running, for it seemed to
him that the bald gentleman had turned back, was running after him, and
meant to search him and take away all his salary, insisting upon the
indisputable number seven, and resolutely denying any possible claim of
any sort of sisters-in-law upon Semyon Ivanovitch. Prohartchin ran and
ran, gasping for breath. . . . Beside him was running, too, an immense
number of people, and all of them were jingling their money in the
tailpockets of their skimpy little dress-coats; at last every one ran
up, there was the noise of fire engines, and whole masses of people
carried him almost on their shoulders up to that same house on fire
which he had watched last time in company with the drunken cadger. The
drunken cadger--alias Mr. Zimoveykin--was there now, too, he met Semyon
Ivanovitch, made a fearful fuss, took him by the arm, and led him into
the thickest part of the crowd. Just as then in reality, all about them
was the noise and uproar of an immense crowd of people, flooding the
whole of Fontanka Embankment between the two bridges, as well as all the
surrounding streets and alleys; just as then, Semyon Ivanovitch, in
company with the drunken cadger, was carried along behind a fence, where
they were squeezed as though in pincers in a huge timber-yard full of
spectators who had gathered from the street, from Tolkutchy Market and
from all the surrounding houses, taverns, and restaurants. Semyon
Ivanovitch saw all this and felt as he had done at the time; in the
whirl of fever and delirium all sorts of strange figures began flitting
before him. He remembered some of them. One of them was a gentleman who
had impressed every one extremely, a man seven feet high, with whiskers
half a yard long, who had been standing behind Semyon Ivanovitch's back
during the fire, and had given him encouragement from behind, when our
hero had felt something like ecstasy and had stamped as though intending
thereby to applaud the gallant work of the firemen, from which he had an
excellent view from his elevated position. Another was the sturdy lad
from whom our hero had received a shove by way of a lift on to another
fence, when he had been disposed to climb over it, possibly to save some
one. He had a glimpse, too, of the figure of the old man with a sickly
face, in an old wadded dressing-gown, tied round the waist, who had made
his appearance before the fire in a little shop buying sugar and tobacco
for his lodger, and who now, with a milk-can and a quart pot in his
hands, made his way through the crowd to the house in which his wife and
daughter were burning together with thirteen and a half roubles in the
corner under the bed. But most distinct of all was the poor, sinful
woman of whom he had dreamed more than once during his illness--she
stood before him now as she had done then, in wretched bark shoes and
rags, with a crutch and a wicker-basket on her back. She was shouting
more loudly than the firemen or the crowd, waving her crutch and her
arms, saying that her own children had turned her out and that she had
lost two coppers in consequence. The children and the coppers, the
coppers and the children, were mingled together in an utterly
incomprehensible muddle, from which every one withdrew baffled, after
vain efforts to understand. But the woman would not desist, she kept
wailing, shouting, and waving her arms, seeming to pay no attention
either to the fire up to which she had been carried by the crowd from
the street or to the people about her, or to the misfortune of
strangers, or even to the sparks and red-hot embers which were beginning
to fall in showers on the crowd standing near. At last Mr. Prohartchin
felt that a feeling of terror was coming upon him; for he saw clearly
that all this was not, so to say, an accident, and that he would not get
off scot-free. And, indeed, upon the woodstack, close to him, was a
peasant, in a torn smock that hung loose about him, with his hair and
beard singed, and he began stirring up all the people against Semyon
Ivanovitch. The crowd pressed closer and closer, the peasant shouted,
and foaming at the mouth with horror, Mr. Prohartchin suddenly realized
that this peasant was a cabman whom he had cheated five years before in
the most inhuman way, slipping away from him without paying through a
side gate and jerking up his heels as he ran as though he were barefoot
on hot bricks. In despair Mr. Prohartchin tried to speak, to scream, but
his voice failed him. He felt that the infuriated crowd was twining
round him like a many-coloured snake, strangling him, crushing him. He
made an incredible effort and awoke. Then he saw that he was on fire,
that all his corner was on fire, that his screen was on fire, that the
whole flat was on fire, together with Ustinya Fyodorovna and all her
lodgers, that his bed was burning, his pillow, his quilt, his box, and
last of all, his precious mattress. Semyon Ivanovitch jumped up,
clutched at the mattress and ran dragging it after him. But in the
landlady's room into which, regardless of decorum, our hero ran just as
he was, barefoot and in his shirt, he was seized, held tight, and
triumphantly carried back behind the screen, which meanwhile was not on
fire--it seemed that it was rather Semyon Ivanovitch's head that was on
fire--and was put back to bed. It was just as some tattered, unshaven,
ill-humoured organ-grinder puts away in his travelling box the Punch who
has been making an upset, drubbing all the other puppets, selling his
soul to the devil, and who at last ends his existence, till the next
performance, in the same box with the devil, the negroes, the Pierrot,
and Mademoiselle Katerina with her fortunate lover, the captain.

Immediately every one, old and young, surrounded Semyon Ivanovitch,
standing in a row round his bed and fastening eyes full of expectation
on the invalid. Meantime he had come to himself, but from shame or some
other feeling, began pulling up the quilt over him, apparently wishing
to hide himself under it from the attention of his sympathetic friends.
At last Mark Ivanovitch was the first to break silence, and as a
sensible man he began saying in a very friendly way that Semyon
Ivanovitch must keep calm, that it was too bad and a shame to be ill,
that only little children behaved like that, that he must get well and
go to the office. Mark Ivanovitch ended by a little joke, saying that no
regular salary had yet been fixed for invalids, and as he knew for a
fact that their grade would be very low in the service, to his thinking
anyway, their calling or condition did not promise great and substantial
advantages. In fact, it was evident that they were all taking genuine
interest in Semyon Ivanovitch's fate and were very sympathetic. But with
incomprehensible rudeness, Semyon Ivanovitch persisted in lying in bed
in silence, and obstinately pulling the quilt higher and higher over his
head. Mark Ivanovitch, however, would not be gainsaid, and restraining
his feelings, said something very honeyed to Semyon Ivanovitch again,
knowing that that was how he ought to treat a sick man. But Semyon
Ivanovitch would not feel this: on the contrary he muttered something
between his teeth with the most distrustful air, and suddenly began
glancing askance from right to left in a hostile way, as though he would
have reduced his sympathetic friends to ashes with his eyes. It was no
use letting it stop there. Mark Ivanovitch lost patience, and seeing
that the man was offended and completely exasperated, and had simply
made up his mind to be obstinate, told him straight out, without any
softening suavity, that it was time to get up, that it was no use lying
there, that shouting day and night about houses on fire, sisters-in-law,
drunken cadgers, locks, boxes and goodness knows what, was all stupid,
improper, and degrading, for if Semyon Ivanovitch did not want to sleep
himself he should not hinder other people, and please would he bear it
in mind.

This speech produced its effects, for Semyon Ivanovitch, turning
promptly to the orator, articulated firmly, though in a hoarse voice,
"You hold your tongue, puppy! You idle speaker, you foul-mouthed man! Do
you hear, young dandy? Are you a prince, eh? Do you understand what I
say? "

Hearing such insults, Mark Ivanovitch fired up, but realizing that he
had to deal with a sick man, magnanimously overcame his resentment and
tried to shame him out of his humour, but was cut short in that too; for
Semyon Ivanovitch observed at once that he would not allow people to
play with him for all that Mark Ivanovitch wrote poetry. Then followed a
silence of two minutes; at last recovering from his amazement Mark
Ivanovitch, plainly, clearly, in well-chosen language, but with
firmness, declared that Semyon Ivanovitch ought to understand that he
was among gentlemen, and "you ought to understand, sir, how to behave
with gentlemen. "

Mark Ivanovitch could on occasion speak effectively and liked to impress
his hearers, but, probably from the habit of years of silence, Semyon
Ivanovitch talked and acted somewhat abruptly; and, moreover, when he
did on occasion begin a long sentence, as he got further into it every
word seemed to lead to another word, that other word to a third word,
that third to a fourth and so on, so that his mouth seemed brimming
over; he began stuttering, and the crowding words took to flying out in
picturesque disorder. That was why Semyon Ivanovitch, who was a sensible
man, sometimes talked terrible nonsense. "You are lying," he said now.
"You booby, you loose fellow! You'll come to want--you'll go begging,
you seditious fellow, you--you loafer. Take that, you poet! "

"Why, you are still raving, aren't you, Semyon Ivanovitch? "

"I tell you what," answered Semyon Ivanovitch, "fools rave, drunkards
rave, dogs rave, but a wise man acts sensibly. I tell you, you don't
know your own business, you loafer, you educated gentleman, you learned
book! Here, you'll get on fire and not notice your head's burning off.
What do you think of that? "

"Why . . . you mean. . . . How do you mean, burn my head off, Semyon
Ivanovitch? "

Mark Ivanovitch said no more, for every one saw clearly that Semyon
Ivanovitch was not yet in his sober senses, but delirious.

But the landlady could not resist remarking at this point that the house
in Crooked Lane had been burnt owing to a bald wench; that there was a
bald-headed wench living there, that she had lighted a candle and set
fire to the lumber room; but nothing would happen in her place, and
everything would be all right in the flats.

"But look here, Semyon Ivanovitch," cried Zinovy Prokofyevitch, losing
patience and interrupting the landlady, "you old fogey, you old crock,
you silly fellow--are they making jokes with you now about your
sister-in-law or examinations in dancing? Is that it? Is that what you
think? "

"Now, I tell you what," answered our hero, sitting up in bed and making
a last effort in a paroxysm of fury with his sympathetic friends. "Who's
the fool? You are the fool, a dog is a fool, you joking gentleman. But I
am not going to make jokes to please you, sir; do you hear, puppy? I am
not your servant, sir. "

Semyon Ivanovitch would have said something more, but he fell back in
bed helpless. His sympathetic friends were left gaping in perplexity,
for they understood now what was wrong with Semyon Ivanovitch and did
not know how to begin. Suddenly the kitchen door creaked and opened, and
the drunken cadger--alias Mr. Zimoveykin--timidly thrust in his head,
cautiously sniffing round the place as his habit was. It seemed as
though he had been expected, every one waved to him at once to come
quickly, and Zimoveykin, highly delighted, with the utmost readiness and
haste jostled his way to Semyon Ivanovitch's bedside.

It was evident that Zimoveykin had spent the whole night in vigil and in
great exertions of some sort. The right side of his face was plastered
up; his swollen eyelids were wet from his running eyes, his coat and all
his clothes were torn, while the whole left side of his attire was
bespattered with something extremely nasty, possibly mud from a puddle.
Under his arm was somebody's violin, which he had been taking somewhere
to sell. Apparently they had not made a mistake in summoning him to
their assistance, for seeing the position of affairs, he addressed the
delinquent at once, and with the air of a man who knows what he is about
and feels that he has the upper hand, said: "What are you thinking
about? Get up, Senka. What are you doing, a clever chap like you? Be
sensible, or I shall pull you out of bed if you are obstreperous. Don't
be obstreperous! "

This brief but forcible speech surprised them all; still more were they
surprised when they noticed that Semyon Ivanovitch, hearing all this and
seeing this person before him, was so flustered and reduced to such
confusion and dismay that he could scarcely mutter through his teeth in
a whisper the inevitable protest.

"Go away, you wretch," he said. "You are a wretched creature--you are a
thief! Do you hear? Do you understand? You are a great swell, my fine
gentleman, you regular swell. "

"No, my boy," Zimoveykin answered emphatically, retaining all his
presence of mind, "you're wrong there, you wise fellow, you regular
Prohartchin," Zimoveykin went on, parodying Semyon Ivanovitch and
looking round gleefully. "Don't be obstreperous! Behave yourself, Senka,
behave yourself, or I'll give you away, I'll tell them all about it, my
lad, do you understand? "

Apparently Semyon Ivanovitch did understand, for he started when he
heard the conclusion of the speech, and began looking rapidly about him
with an utterly desperate air.

Satisfied with the effect, Mr. Zimoveykin would have continued, but Mark
Ivanovitch checked his zeal, and waiting till Semyon Ivanovitch was
still and almost calm again began judiciously impressing on the uneasy
invalid at great length that, "to harbour ideas such as he now had in
his head was, first, useless, and secondly, not only useless, but
harmful; and, in fact, not so much harmful as positively immoral; and
the cause of it all was that Semyon Ivanovitch was not only a bad
example, but led them all into temptation. "

Every one expected satisfactory results from this speech. Moreover by
now Semyon Ivanovitch was quite quiet and replied in measured terms. A
quiet discussion followed. They appealed to him in a friendly way,
inquiring what he was so frightened of. Semyon Ivanovitch answered, but
his answers were irrelevant. They answered him, he answered them. There
were one or two more observations on both sides and then every one
rushed into discussion, for suddenly such a strange and amazing subject
cropped up, that they did not know how to express themselves. The
argument at last led to impatience, impatience led to shouting, and
shouting even to tears; and Mark Ivanovitch went away at last foaming at
the mouth and declaring that he had never known such a blockhead.
Oplevaniev spat in disgust, Okeanov was frightened, Zinovy Prokofyevitch
became tearful, while Ustinya Fyodorovna positively howled, wailing that
her lodger was leaving them and had gone off his head, that he would
die, poor dear man, without a passport and without telling any one,
while she was a lone, lorn woman and that she would be dragged from
pillar to post. In fact, they all saw clearly at last that the seed they
had sown had yielded a hundred-fold, that the soil had been too
productive, and that in their company, Semyon Ivanovitch had succeeded
in overstraining his wits completely and in the most irrevocable manner.
Every one subsided into silence, for though they saw that Semyon
Ivanovitch was frightened, the sympathetic friends were frightened too.

"What? " cried Mark Ivanovitch; "but what are you afraid of? What have
you gone off your head about? Who's thinking about you, my good sir?
Have you the right to be afraid? Who are you? What are you? Nothing,
sir. A round nought, sir, that is what you are. What are you making a
fuss about? A woman has been run over in the street, so are you going to
be run over? Some drunkard did not take care of his pocket, but is that
any reason why your coat-tails should be cut off? A house is burnt down,
so your head is to be burnt off, is it? Is that it, sir, is that it? "

"You . . . you . . . you stupid! " muttered Semyon Ivanovitch, "if your nose
were cut off you would eat it up with a bit of bread and not notice it. "

"I may be a dandy," shouted Mark Ivanovitch, not listening; "I may be a
regular dandy, but I have not to pass an examination to get married--to
learn dancing; the ground is firm under me, sir. Why, my good man,
haven't you room enough? Is the floor giving way under your feet, or
what? "

"Well, they won't ask you, will they? They'll shut one up and that will
be the end of it? "

"The end of it? That's what's up? What's your idea now, eh? "

"Why, they kicked out the drunken cadger. "

"Yes; but you see that was a drunkard, and you are a man, and so am I. "

"Yes, I am a man. It's there all right one day and then it's gone. "

"Gone! But what do you mean by it? "

"Why, the office! The off--off--ice! "

"Yes, you blessed man, but of course the office is wanted and
necessary. "

"It is wanted, I tell you; it's wanted to-day and it's wanted to-morrow,
but the day after to-morrow it will not be wanted. You have heard what
happened? "

"Why, but they'll pay you your salary for the year, you doubting Thomas,
you man of little faith. They'll put you into another job on account of
your age. "

"Salary? But what if I have spent my salary, if thieves come and take my
money? And I have a sister-in-law, do you hear? A sister-in-law! You
battering-ram. . . . "

"A sister-in-law! You are a man. . . . "

"Yes, I am; I am a man. But you are a well-read gentleman and a fool, do
you hear? --you battering-ram--you regular battering-ram! That's what you
are! I am not talking about your jokes; but there are jobs such that all
of a sudden they are done away with. And Demid--do you hear? --Demid
Vassilyevitch says that the post will be done away with. . . . "

"Ah, bless you, with your Demid! You sinner, why, you know. . . . "

"In a twinkling of an eye you'll be left without a post, then you'll
just have to make the best of it. "

"Why, you are simply raving, or clean off your head! Tell us plainly,
what have you done? Own up if you have done something wrong! It's no use
being ashamed! Are you off your head, my good man, eh? "

"He's off his head! He's gone off his head! " they all cried, and wrung
their hands in despair, while the landlady threw both her arms round
Mark Ivanovitch for fear he should tear Semyon Ivanovitch to pieces.
"You heathen, you heathenish soul, you wise man! " Zimoveykin besought
him. "Senka, you are not a man to take offence, you are a polite,
prepossessing man. You are simple, you are good . . . do you hear? It all
comes from your goodness. Here I am a ruffian and a fool, I am a beggar;
but good people haven't abandoned me, no fear; you see they treat me
with respect, I thank them and the landlady. Here, you see, I bow down
to the ground to them; here, see, see, I am paying what is due to you,
landlady! " At this point Zimoveykin swung off with pedantic dignity a
low bow right down to the ground.

After that Semyon Ivanovitch would have gone on talking; but this time
they would not let him, they all intervened, began entreating him,
assuring him, comforting him, and succeeded in making Semyon Ivanovitch
thoroughly ashamed of himself, and at last, in a faint voice, he asked
leave to explain himself.

"Very well, then," he said, "I am prepossessing, I am quiet, I am good,
faithful and devoted; to the last drop of my blood you know . . . do you
hear, you puppy, you swell? . . . granted the job is going on, but you see
I am poor. And what if they take it? do you hear, you swell? Hold your
tongue and try to understand! They'll take it and that's all about it
. . . it's going on, brother, and then not going on . . . do you understand?
And I shall go begging my bread, do you hear? "

"Senka," Zimoveykin bawled frantically, drowning the general hubbub with
his voice. "You are seditious! I'll inform against you! What are you
saying? Who are you? Are you a rebel, you sheep's head? A rowdy, stupid
man they would turn off without a character. But what are you? "

"Well, that's just it. "

"What? "

"Well, there it is. "

"How do you mean? "

"Why, I am free, he's free, and here one lies and thinks. . . . "

"What? "

"What if they say I'm seditious? "

"Se--di--tious? Senka, you seditious! "

"Stay," cried Mr. Prohartchin, waving his hand and interrupting the
rising uproar, "that's not what I mean. Try to understand, only try to
understand, you sheep. I am law-abiding. I am law-abiding to-day, I am
law-abiding to-morrow, and then all of a sudden they kick me out and
call me seditious. "

"What are you saying? " Mark Ivanovitch thundered at last, jumping up
from the chair on which he had sat down to rest, running up to the bed
and in a frenzy shaking with vexation and fury. "What do you mean? You
sheep! You've nothing to call your own. Why, are you the only person in
the world? Was the world made for you, do you suppose? Are you a
Napoleon? What are you? Who are you? Are you a Napoleon, eh? Tell me,
are you a Napoleon? "

But Mr. Prohartchin did not answer this question. Not because he was
overcome with shame at being a Napoleon, and was afraid of taking upon
himself such a responsibility--no, he was incapable of disputing
further, or saying anything. . . . His illness had reached a crisis. Tiny
teardrops gushed suddenly from his glittering, feverish, grey eyes. He
hid his burning head in his bony hands that were wasted by illness, sat
up in bed, and sobbing, began to say that he was quite poor, that he was
a simple, unlucky man, that he was foolish and unlearned, he begged kind
folks to forgive him, to take care of him, to protect him, to give him
food and drink, not to leave him in want, and goodness knows what else
Semyon Ivanovitch said. As he uttered this appeal he looked about him in
wild terror, as though he were expecting the ceiling to fall or the
floor to give way. Every one felt his heart soften and move to pity as
he looked at the poor fellow. The landlady, sobbing and wailing like a
peasant woman at her forlorn condition, laid the invalid back in bed
with her own hands. Mark Ivanovitch, seeing the uselessness of touching
upon the memory of Napoleon, instantly relapsed into kindliness and came
to her assistance. The others, in order to do something, suggested
raspberry tea, saying that it always did good at once and that the
invalid would like it very much; but Zimoveykin contradicted them all,
saying there was nothing better than a good dose of camomile or
something of the sort. As for Zinovy Prokofyevitch, having a good heart,
he sobbed and shed tears in his remorse, for having frightened Semyon
Ivanovitch with all sorts of absurdities, and gathering from the
invalid's last words that he was quite poor and needing assistance, he
proceeded to get up a subscription for him, confining it for a time to
the tenants of the flat. Every one was sighing and moaning, every one
felt sorry and grieved, and yet all wondered how it was a man could be
so completely panic-stricken. And what was he frightened about? It would
have been all very well if he had had a good post, had had a wife, a lot
of children; it would have been excusable if he were being hauled up
before the court on some charge or other; but he was a man utterly
insignificant, with nothing but a trunk and a German lock; he had been
lying more than twenty years behind his screen, saying nothing, knowing
nothing of the world nor of trouble, saving his half-pence, and now at a
frivolous, idle word the man had actually gone off his head, was utterly
panic-stricken at the thought he might have a hard time of it. . . . And it
never occurred to him that every one has a hard time of it! "If he would
only take that into consideration," Okeanov said afterwards, "that we
all have a hard time, then the man would have kept his head, would have
given up his antics and would have put up with things, one way or
another. "

All day long nothing was talked of but Semyon Ivanovitch. They went up
to him, inquired after him, tried to comfort him; but by the evening he
was beyond that. The poor fellow began to be delirious, feverish. He
sank into unconsciousness, so that they almost thought of sending for a
doctor; the lodgers all agreed together and undertook to watch over
Semyon Ivanovitch and soothe him by turns through the night, and if
anything happened to wake all the rest immediately. With the object of
keeping awake, they sat down to cards, setting beside the invalid his
friend, the drunken cadger, who had spent the whole day in the flat and
had asked leave to stay the night. As the game was played on credit and
was not at all interesting they soon got bored. They gave up the game,
then got into an argument about something, then began to be loud and
noisy, finally dispersed to their various corners, went on for a long
time angrily shouting and wrangling, and as all of them felt suddenly
ill-humoured they no longer cared to sit up, so went to sleep. Soon it
was as still in the flat as in an empty cellar, and it was the more like
one because it was horribly cold. The last to fall asleep was Okeanov.
"And it was between sleeping and waking," as he said afterwards, "I
fancied just before morning two men kept talking close by me. " Okeanov
said that he recognized Zimoveykin, and that Zimoveykin began waking his
old friend Remnev just beside him, that they talked for a long time in a
whisper; then Zimoveykin went away and could be heard trying to unlock
the door into the kitchen. The key, the landlady declared afterwards,
was lying under her pillow and was lost that night. Finally--Okeanov
testified--he had fancied he had heard them go behind the screen to the
invalid and light a candle there, "and I know nothing more," he said, "I
fell asleep, and woke up," as everybody else did, when every one in the
flat jumped out of bed at the sound behind the screen of a shriek that
would have roused the dead, and it seemed to many of them that a candle
went out at that moment. A great hubbub arose, every one's heart stood
still; they rushed pell-mell at the shriek, but at that moment there was
a scuffle, with shouting, swearing, and fighting. They struck a light
and saw that Zimoveykin and Remnev were fighting together, that they
were swearing and abusing one another, and as they turned the light on
them, one of them shouted: "It's not me, it's this ruffian," and the
other who was Zimoveykin, was shouting: "Don't touch me, I've done
nothing! I'll take my oath any minute! " Both of them looked hardly like
human beings; but for the first minute they had no attention to spare
for them; the invalid was not where he had been behind the screen. They
immediately parted the combatants and dragged them away, and saw that
Mr. Prohartchin was lying under the bed; he must, while completely
unconscious, have dragged the quilt and pillow after him so that there
was nothing left on the bedstead but the bare mattress, old and greasy
(he never had sheets). They pulled Semyon Ivanovitch out, stretched him
on the mattress, but soon realized that there was no need to make
trouble over him, that he was completely done for; his arms were stiff,
and he seemed all to pieces. They stood over him, he still faintly
shuddered and trembled all over, made an effort to do something with his
arms, could not utter a word, but blinked his eyes as they say heads do
when still warm and bleeding, after being just chopped off by the
executioner.

At last the body grew more and more still; the last faint convulsions
died away. Mr. Prohartchin had set off with his good deeds and his sins.
Whether Semyon Ivanovitch had been frightened by something, whether he
had had a dream, as Remnev maintained afterwards, or there had been some
other mischief--nobody knew; all that can be said is, that if the head
clerk had made his appearance at that moment in the flat and had
announced that Semyon Ivanovitch was dismissed for sedition,
insubordination, and drunkenness; if some old draggle-tailed beggar
woman had come in at the door, calling herself Semyon Ivanovitch's
sister-in-law; or if Semyon Ivanovitch had just received two hundred
roubles as a reward; or if the house had caught fire and Semyon
Ivanovitch's head had been really burning--he would in all probability
not have deigned to stir a finger in any of these eventualities. While
the first stupefaction was passing over, while all present were
regaining their powers of speech, were working themselves up into a
fever of excitement, shouting and flying to conjectures and
suppositions; while Ustinya Fyodorovna was pulling the box from under
his bed, was rummaging in a fluster under the mattress and even in
Semyon Ivanovitch's boots; while they cross-questioned Remnev and
Zimoveykin, Okeanov, who had hitherto been the quietest, humblest, and
least original of the lodgers, suddenly plucked up all his presence of
mind and displayed all his latent talents, by taking up his hat and
under cover of the general uproar slipping out of the flat. And just
when the horrors of disorder and anarchy had reached their height in the
agitated flat, till then so tranquil, the door opened and suddenly there
descended upon them, like snow upon their heads, a personage of
gentlemanly appearance, with a severe and displeased-looking face,
behind him Yaroslav Ilyitch, behind Yaroslav Ilyitch his subordinates
and the functionaries whose duty it is to be present on such occasions,
and behind them all, much embarrassed, Mr. Okeanov. The severe-looking
personage of gentlemanly appearance went straight up to Semyon
Ivanovitch, examined him, made a wry face, shrugged his shoulders and
announced what everybody knew, that is, that the dead man was dead, only
adding that the same thing had happened a day or two ago to a gentleman
of consequence, highly respected, who had died suddenly in his sleep.
Then the personage of gentlemanly, but displeased-looking, appearance
walked away saying that they had troubled him for nothing, and took
himself off. His place was at once filled (while Remnev and Zimoveykin
were handed over to the custody of the proper functionaries), by
Yaroslav Ilyitch, who questioned some one, adroitly took possession of
the box, which the landlady was already trying to open, put the boots
back in their proper place, observing that they were all in holes and no
use, asked for the pillow to be put back, called up Okeanov, asked for
the key of the box which was found in the pocket of the drunken cadger,
and solemnly, in the presence of the proper officials, unlocked Semyon
Ivanovitch's property. Everything was displayed: two rags, a pair of
socks, half a handkerchief, an old hat, several buttons, some old soles,
and the uppers of a pair of boots, that is, all sorts of odds and ends,
scraps, rubbish, trash, which had a stale smell. The only thing of any
value was the German lock. They called up Okeanov and cross-questioned
him sternly; but Okeanov was ready to take his oath. They asked for the
pillow, they examined it; it was extremely dirty, but in other respects
it was like all other pillows. They attacked the mattress, they were
about to lift it up, but stopped for a moment's consideration, when
suddenly and quite unexpectedly something heavy fell with a clink on the
floor. They bent down and saw on the floor a screw of paper and in the
screw some dozen roubles. "A-hey! " said Yaroslav Ilyitch, pointing to a
slit in the mattress from which hair and stuffing were sticking out.
They examined the slit and found that it had only just been made with a
knife and was half a yard in length; they thrust hands into the gap and
pulled out a kitchen knife, probably hurriedly thrust in there after
slitting the mattress. Before Yaroslav Ilyitch had time to pull the
knife out of the slit and to say "A-hey! " again, another screw of money
fell out, and after it, one at a time, two half roubles, a quarter
rouble, then some small change, and an old-fashioned, solid five-kopeck
piece--all this was seized upon. At this point it was realized that it
would not be amiss to cut up the whole mattress with scissors. They
asked for scissors.

Meanwhile, the guttering candle lighted up a scene that would have been
extremely curious to a spectator. About a dozen lodgers were grouped
round the bed in the most picturesque costumes, all unbrushed, unshaven,
unwashed, sleepy-looking, just as they had gone to bed. Some were quite
pale, while others had drops of sweat upon their brows: some were
shuddering, while others looked feverish. The landlady, utterly
stupefied, was standing quietly with her hands folded waiting for
Yaroslav Ilyitch's good pleasure. From the stove above, the heads of
Avdotya, the servant, and the landlady's favourite cat looked down with
frightened curiosity. The torn and broken screen lay cast on the floor,
the open box displayed its uninviting contents, the quilt and pillow lay
tossed at random, covered with fluff from the mattress, and on the
three-legged wooden table gleamed the steadily growing heap of silver
and other coins. Only Semyon Ivanovitch preserved his composure, lying
calmly on the bed and seeming to have no foreboding of his ruin. When
the scissors had been brought and Yaroslav Ilyitch's assistant, wishing
to be of service, shook the mattress rather impatiently to ease it from
under the back of its owner, Semyon Ivanovitch with his habitual
civility made room a little, rolling on his side with his back to the
searchers; then at a second shake he turned on his face, finally gave
way still further, and as the last slat in the bedstead was missing, he
suddenly and quite unexpectedly plunged head downward, leaving in view
only two bony, thin, blue legs, which stuck upwards like two branches of
a charred tree. As this was the second time that morning that Mr.
Prohartchin had poked his head under his bed it at once aroused
suspicion, and some of the lodgers, headed by Zinovy Prokofyevitch,
crept under it, with the intention of seeing whether there were
something hidden there too. But they knocked their heads together for
nothing, and as Yaroslav Ilyitch shouted to them, bidding them release
Semyon Ivanovitch at once from his unpleasant position, two of the more
sensible seized each a leg, dragged the unsuspected capitalist into the
light of day and laid him across the bed. Meanwhile the hair and flock
were flying about, the heap of silver grew--and, my goodness, what a lot
there was! . . . Noble silver roubles, stout solid rouble and a half
pieces, pretty half rouble coins, plebeian quarter roubles, twenty
kopeck pieces, even the unpromising old crone's small fry of ten and
five kopeck silver pieces--all done up in separate bits of paper in the
most methodical and systematic way; there were curiosities also, two
counters of some sort, one napoléon d'or, one very rare coin of some
unknown kind. . . . Some of the roubles were of the greatest antiquity,
they were rubbed and hacked coins of Elizabeth, German kreutzers, coins
of Peter, of Catherine; there were, for instance, old fifteen-kopeck
pieces, now very rare, pierced for wearing as earrings, all much worn,
yet with the requisite number of dots . . . there was even copper, but all
of that was green and tarnished. . . . They found one red note, but no
more. At last, when the dissection was quite over and the mattress case
had been shaken more than once without a clink, they piled all the money
on the table and set to work to count it. At the first glance one might
well have been deceived and have estimated it at a million, it was such
an immense heap. But it was not a million, though it did turn out to be
a very considerable sum--exactly 2497 roubles and a half--so that if
Zinovy Prokofyevitch's subscription had been raised the day before there
would perhaps have been just 2500 roubles. They took the money, they put
a seal on the dead man's box, they listened to the landlady's
complaints, and informed her when and where she ought to lodge
information in regard to the dead man's little debt to her. A receipt
was taken from the proper person. At that point hints were dropped in
regard to the sister-in-law; but being persuaded that in a certain sense
the sister-in-law was a myth, that is, a product of the defective
imagination with which they had more than once reproached Semyon
Ivanovitch--they abandoned the idea as useless, mischievous and
disadvantageous to the good name of Mr. Prohartchin, and so the matter
ended.

When the first shock was over, when the lodgers had recovered themselves
and realized the sort of person their late companion had been, they all
subsided, relapsed into silence and began looking distrustfully at one
another. Some seemed to take Semyon Ivanovitch's behaviour very much to
heart, and even to feel affronted by it. What a fortune! So the man had
saved up like this! Not losing his composure, Mark Ivanovitch proceeded
to explain why Semyon Ivanovitch had been so suddenly panic-stricken;
but they did not listen to him. Zinovy Prokofyevitch was very
thoughtful, Okeanov had had a little to drink, the others seemed rather
crestfallen, while a little man called Kantarev, with a nose like a
sparrow's beak, left the flat that evening after very carefully packing
up and cording all his boxes and bags, and coldly explaining to the
curious that times were hard and that the terms here were beyond his
means. The landlady wailed without ceasing, lamenting for Semyon
Ivanovitch, and cursing him for having taken advantage of her lone, lorn
state. Mark Ivanovitch was asked why the dead man had not taken his
money to the bank. "He was too simple, my good soul, he hadn't enough
imagination," answered Mark Ivanovitch.

"Yes, and you have been too simple, too, my good woman," Okeanov put in.
"For twenty years the man kept himself close here in your flat, and here
he's been knocked down by a feather--while you went on cooking
cabbage-soup and had no time to notice it. . . . Ah-ah, my good woman! "

"Oh, the poor dear," the landlady went on, "what need of a bank! If he'd
brought me his pile and said to me: 'Take it, Ustinyushka, poor dear,
here is all I have, keep and board me in my helplessness, so long as I
am on earth,' then, by the holy ikon I would have fed him, I would have
given him drink, I would have looked after him. Ah, the sinner! ah, the
deceiver! He deceived me, he cheated me, a poor lone woman! "

They went up to the bed again. Semyon Ivanovitch was lying properly now,
dressed in his best, though, indeed, it was his only suit, hiding his
rigid chin behind a cravat which was tied rather awkwardly, washed,
brushed, but not quite shaven, because there was no razor in the flat;
the only one, which had belonged to Zinovy Prokofyevitch, had lost its
edge a year ago and had been very profitably sold at Tolkutchy Market;
the others used to go to the barber's.

They had not yet had time to clear up the disorder. The broken screen
lay as before, and exposing Semyon Ivanovitch's seclusion, seemed like
an emblem of the fact that death tears away the veil from all our
secrets, our shifty dodges and intrigues. The stuffing from the mattress
lay about in heaps. The whole room, suddenly so still, might well have
been compared by a poet to the ruined nest of a swallow, broken down and
torn to pieces by the storm, the nestlings and their mother killed, and
their warm little bed of fluff, feather and flock scattered about
them. . . . Semyon Ivanovitch, however, looked more like a conceited,
thievish old cock-sparrow. He kept quite quiet now, seemed to be lying
low, as though he were not guilty, as though he had had nothing to do
with the shameless, conscienceless, and unseemly duping and deception of
all these good people. He did not heed now the sobs and wailing of his
bereaved and wounded landlady.