‘Why? Because you’re jealous, my dear Yegorushka,’ the General’s Lady muttered.

  ‘Mother!’ Uncle exclaimed in complete despair, ‘you’ll drive me crazy! These are not your words, you’re just repeating what others say, Mother. I’m gradually turning into a pillar, a stump, a lamp-post — I’m not your son!’

  ‘I heard, Uncle,’ I interrupted, utterly astounded by his story, ‘I heard from Bakhcheyev, true or not, that Foma Fomich is jealous of Ilyusha’s name-day and insists that it ought to be his own tomorrow. I confess, this side of his character surprises me so much that I …’

  ‘It’s his birthday, my boy, birthday, not name-day, birthday,’ Uncle interrupted me hastily. ‘He just made a slip, but he’s perfectly right: it is his birthday tomorrow. He’s right, my boy, first because …’

  ‘No, it isn’t!’ cried Sashenka.

  ‘What do you mean, it isn’t?’ Uncle exclaimed, dumbfounded.

  ‘It’s not his birthday at all, Papa! You’re simply not telling the truth, you’re just deceiving yourself to please Foma Fomich. His birthday was in March — remember, we went just before to hear Mass at the monastery, and he wouldn’t let anybody sit still in the carriage, he kept shouting that the cushion was crushing his ribs, and then he started pinching everybody and he pinched Auntie twice in a temper! And later when we wished him many happy returns, he flew into a temper because there were no camellias in the flowers we gave him: “I’m fond of camellias,” he said, “because I have a refined taste — and you begrudge me a few sprays from the greenhouse!” All day long he fretted and sulked and wouldn’t speak a word to any of us …’

  I believe a bomb bursting in the middle of the room would have occasioned less shock and alarm than this rebellious outburst — and to think that it could have come from a girl who was not even allowed to speak above a whisper in her grandmother’s presence! The General’s Lady, struck dumb with rage and consternation, rose majestically to her feet and glared at her insolent granddaughter with utter incredulity. Uncle was terror-stricken.

  ‘Such liberty! This will kill Grandmamma!’ Perepelitsyna exclaimed.

  ‘Sashenka, Sashenka, take a hold on yourself! What’s the matter with you, Sashenka?’ Uncle cried, darting backwards and forwards between his mother and Sashenka in an attempt to restrain the girl.

  ‘No, I won’t keep quiet, Papa!’ shouted Sashenka, and suddenly jumped to her feet and stamped on the floor, her eyes flashing furiously. ‘I refuse to keep quiet! We’ve been putting up with this vile, horrible Foma Fomich of yours for too long! He’ll be the end of us all — nobody ever stops telling us how clever, noble, gentlemanly and scholarly he is; a paragon of all the virtues — and Foma Fomich, like the idiot that he is, takes it all in! He’s been served so many good things, it would put a decent person to shame, but not Foma Fomich; he gobbles up everything put before him and keeps coming back for more. Just you wait, he’ll eat us all up and Papa will be the one to blame! Horrible, horrible Foma Fomich! I’ll say it straight out! I’m scared of no one! He’s nasty, stupid, capricious, ungrateful, cruel, slanderous, deceitful and a bully … I wish I could kick him out of the house this very minute, but Papa adores him, Papa worships him!’

  ‘Ah!’ cried the General’s Lady and swooned on the sofa.

  ‘Darling, Agafya Timofeyevna, my angel!’ Madame Obnoskin cried, ‘take my vial! Water, quick, water!’

  ‘Water, water!’ cried Uncle. ‘Mother, Mother, please calm down! I beg you on my knees, calm down!’

  ‘You should be shut up in a dark closet and kept on bread and water, you murderess!’ Perepelitsyna hissed at Sashenka, shaking with venom.

  ‘Shut me up on bread and water, it won’t worry me!’ screamed Sashenka, also in a peak of excitement. ‘I’m defending Papa because he can’t defend himself. Who is he, who is this Foma Fomich of yours compared with Papa? He eats Papa’s bread and then goes and humiliates him — what ingratitude! I’ll tear him to pieces, your Foma Fomich! I’ll challenge him to a duel and shoot him dead on the spot with a pair of pistols —’

  ‘Sashenka, Sashenka!’ Uncle cried in despair, ‘one more word — and I’m doomed, doomed forever!’

  ‘Papa!’ cried Sashenka, in tears, suddenly rushing up to her father and twining her arms around his neck. ‘Papa! You’re so good, happy, clever and wonderful, why must you punish yourself so? Why must you submit to this wicked, ungrateful man, why must you make yourself a plaything in his hands and a laughing-stock to everyone? Dear, precious Papa …’

  She broke into sobs, buried her face in her hands, and rushed from the room.

  A terrible commotion ensued. The General’s Lady lay unconscious. Uncle knelt beside her, kissing her hands. Miss Perepelitsyna hovered around them, casting angry but triumphant glances at us. Madame Obnoskin kept dabbing the General’s Lady’s brow and fiddling with her vial of smelling salts. Praskovya Ilyinichna trembled and wept steadily; Yezhevikin looked for a nook to disappear into, and the governess stood pale and petrified with fear. Mizinchikov alone was completely unruffled. He got up, strode over to the window and remained standing there, absorbed with what he saw outside, without paying the slightest attention to the scene in the room.

  Suddenly the General’s Lady sat bolt upright on the sofa and fixed her terrible eyes upon me.

  ‘Out!’ she cried, stamping her foot.

  I must admit this came as a complete surprise to me.

  ‘Out! Out of this house — out! Why is he here? Out of my sight! Out!’

  ‘Mother! Mother, stop it! This is Seryozha,’ Uncle mumbled, trembling all over with fear, ‘he’s come to visit us, Mother.’

  ‘What Seryozha? Rubbish! I don’t want to hear — out! It’s Korovkin! I’m sure it’s Korovkin! My judgment doesn’t deceive me! He’s come to turn Foma Fomich out — he’s been specially fetched. My heart tells me … Out, you scoundrel!’

  ‘Uncle, if it’s come to this,’ I said, gasping with righteous indignation, ‘if it’s come to this, then I … excuse me …’ and I grabbed my hat.

  ‘Sergey, Sergey, what are you doing?’ Uncle cried. ‘Now, Mother! This is Seryozha … Sergey, upon my soul!’ He chased me and tried to snatch my hat. ‘You’re my guest, you must stay — I insist! … It’s only one of her moods,’ he added in a whisper, ‘she’s only like this when she’s angry … Just go and find yourself somewhere to hide … anywhere — till it all blows over. She’ll forgive you — I assure you! She’s good at heart, only never to be taken at her word … You see, she’s mistaken you for Korovkin, and in the end she’ll forgive you, really … What do you want?’ he yelled at Gavrila, who had entered the room and was standing quaking with terror.

  Gavrila was not alone; he was accompanied by a charming peasant lad of about sixteen, who as I later discovered had been admitted to the house because of his good looks. His name was Falaley. He was got up in a remarkable costume: a red silk shirt with ruche trimming round the collar, gold galloon belt, black velveteen breeches and kid boots with red turn-overs. This costume was of the General’s Lady’s own creation. The boy was sobbing bitterly, and tears rolled one after the other from his large blue eyes.

  ‘What’s all this?’ Uncle exclaimed. ‘What’s happened? Speak up, you rogue!’

  ‘Foma Fomich told us to come here; he’ll be here shortly himself,’ replied Gavrila in a pained voice. ‘I’m to have my examentation, and he …’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘He’s been dancing, sir,’ Gavrila replied in tears.

  ‘Dancing!’ gasped Uncle, horrified.

  ‘Yes, dancing!’ wailed Falaley.

  ‘The komarinsky?’

  ‘The ko-mar-in-sky.’

  ‘And Foma Fomich caught you?’

  ‘He did!’

  ‘The end!’ exclaimed Uncle. ‘I’m done for!’ and he clasped both his hands around his head.

  ‘Foma Fomich!’ announced Vidoplyasov, entering the room.

  The door swung open and Foma Fomich in person appeared before the bewildered gathering.

  6

  Concerning the White Bull and a Peasant Named Komarinsky

  But before I have the honour of personally presenting Foma Fomich to the reader, I consider it absolutely necessary to say a few words about Falaley, and to explain why it should have been so scandalous for him to have danced the komarinsky and for Foma Fomich to have caught him at this merriest of pastimes. Falaley was a house-boy, an orphan from the cradle and godchild of my uncle’s deceased wife. My uncle loved him dearly. This alone would have given Foma Fomich, after he had settled in Stepanchikovo and assumed dominance over my uncle, sufficient reason to take a violent dislike to the boy: but, since the General’s Lady took a particular liking to Falaley, he remained, to Foma’s extreme annoyance, upstairs in attendance on the family. The General’s Lady was adamant on this point, and Foma Fomich was obliged to submit, but he retained a deep-seated grudge — it was his wont to regard everything as a personal offence — and took it out on my blameless uncle at every convenient opportunity. Falaley was unusually handsome. He had a girl’s features — the features of a village beauty. The General’s Lady indulged, pampered and treasured him as some rare and precious pet; and it was far from certain which she loved more: her small curly-haired bitch Ami, or Falaley. We have already remarked upon his dress, which was entirely of her own creation. The young ladies of the house would supply him with pomade, and for feast days the barber Kuzma had the duty of curling his hair. This boy was a very strange creature indeed. It would have been unfair to have called him an outright freak or idiot, but he was so naïve, so guileless and simple-hearted, that one could easily have taken him for a simpleton. If he had a dream, he would relate it to his masters first thing in the morning; and he would think nothing of interrupting their conversation, not in the least concerned that he was making a nuisance of himself. He would ply them with stories such as ought never to be told to masters. He would burst into bitter tears at the sight of the General’s Lady swooning or his master receiving an unusually severe dressing-down. He responded with compassion in any calamity. Often he would come up to the General’s Lady, kiss her hands and beg her not to be angry — and the General’s Lady would magnanimously overlook such liberties. He was extraordinarily sensitive, as innocent and gentle as a lamb, happy and carefree as a child. People rewarded him with titbits from the table. He was always to be found behind his mistress’s chair. He was enormously fond of sugar, and as soon as he was given a lump, he would immediately crunch it between his strong, pearl-white teeth, his jovial blue eyes and handsome features beaming with sheer delight.

  Foma Fomich fretted for a long time; but having finally concluded that anger was to no avail, decided to become Falaley’s benefactor. Upbraiding my uncle for neglecting the education of the house servants, he immediately took upon himself the task of instructing the poor boy in morals, good manners and the French language.

  ‘Why,’ he would exclaim in defence of his misbegotten idea (an idea which the author of these lines can vouch has occurred to others besides Foma), ‘Why! Is he not constantly upstairs in his mistress’s presence! Suppose she suddenly forgot his ignorance of the French tongue and said to him, say, “Donnez-moi mon mouchoir” — how could he rise to the occasion and perform his duty?’ But it transpired that not only was it impossible to teach Falaley French, but that the cook Andron, his uncle, who in the goodness of his heart had diligently tried to initiate him in the rudiments of Russian, had long ago abandoned the attempt and allowed the text-book to gather dust on a shelf. Falaley was so hopeless in the matter of learning that he simply could not grasp a thing. As it happened, this led to a minor incident. The peasants nicknamed Falaley ‘Frenchie’, and old Gavrila, Uncle’s faithful valet, had the temerity openly to dispute the advantage of knowing the language anyway. This reached Foma’s ears, and in a temper he ordered the fractious Gavrila himself to take up the study of French as a punishment. Thus began the whole affair with the French language that had incensed Mr Bakhcheyev so deeply. In the matter of manners, it was even worse: Foma was quite incapable of reforming Falaley, and in spite of all injunctions, the lad persisted each morning in recounting a catalogue of his dreams, which Foma regarded as intolerable familiarity and the height of bad manners. But Falaley stubbornly refused to reform. Once again my uncle was the first to suffer for this. ‘Do you know — do you know — what he did today?’ Foma had shouted on one occasion, selecting for maximum effect a moment when everybody was present. ‘Do you realize, Colonel, what your systematic indulgence has led to? Today he gobbled a piece of pie you gave him from the table, and do you know what he said? Come here, come here, you son of perdition, you imbecile, you red-faced monkey!’

  Falaley went up to Foma, crying and wiping his eyes with both hands.

  ‘What did you say after you gobbled up your pie? Repeat it so that everybody can hear!’

  Falaley, tears streaming down his cheeks, could not bring himself to say a word.

  ‘Well then, I’ll answer for you. You said, slapping your tight, revolting belly: “I’ve stuffed myself with pie like Martin full of soap!” Colonel, I ask you, such expressions in educated society — indeed, in refined society. Isn’t that what you said? Speak up!’

  ‘I — did,’ Falaley agreed, sobbing.

  ‘Well, can you tell me now, does Martin eat soap? Where have you seen anybody called Martin eating soap? Speak up! Tell me about this legendary Martin!’

  Silence.

  ‘I’m asking you,’ Foma insisted, ‘who exactly is this Martin? I want to see him, I want to get to know him. Well, who is he? A clerk, an astronomer, a peasant, a poet, a captain-at-arms, a household serf — he must be somebody? I’m listening!’

  ‘A — serf,’ Falaley finally replied, amid continued sobs.

  ‘Whose serf? Who would his masters be?’

  But Falaley had no idea who his masters were. Naturally the result was that Foma Fomich flew out of the room in a passion, shouting that he had been insulted; the General’s Lady immediately resumed her fits, while Uncle, quietly cursing the hour of his birth, implored everybody for pardon, and spent the rest of the day tiptoeing round his own rooms.

  Now to make matters worse, the very next day Falaley, after bringing Foma his tea and contriving to forget all about Martin and the woes of the previous day, informed him that he had dreamt about a white bull. This was the last straw. Foma Fomich’s rage knew no bounds. He at once summoned my uncle into his presence and proceeded to berate him for the vulgarity of his Falaley’s dream. On this occasion tough measures were resorted to. Falaley was punished; he was made to kneel in a corner and forbidden to have any more such uncouth peasant’s dreams. ‘It makes me livid!’ cried Foma Fomich, ‘Quite apart from his effrontery in coming to me with his dreams at all — but a white bull! You must agree, Colonel, what is a white bull but proof of the boorishness, ignorance and lowly birth of your precious Falaley? His dreams are every bit as bad as his day-time thoughts. Didn’t I warn you from the start that no good would come of him, that he ought never to have been allowed upstairs to wait on his masters? Never, never will you be able to lead this dim rustic clodhopper to elevated, poetic notions. Could you not,’ he continued, turning towards Falaley, ‘could you not dream of something refined, delicate. edifying, some scene out of polite society — say, gentlemen playing cards or ladies promenading in a fine park?’ Falaley solemnly promised that next time he would dream of gentlemen or ladies promenading in a fine park.

  Before retiring to bed Falaley, in tears, beseeched God for help and thought for a long time how he could possibly avoid dreaming of the accursed white bull. But human hopes are frail. Next morning he recalled with horror that again, all through the night, he had been dreaming of the hated white bull, and he had not had a glimpse of a single lady promenading in a fine park. This time the consequences were particularly grave. Foma Fomich categorically refused to believe in the possibility of such a repetition of dreams, and declared that Falaley must deliberately have been worked upon by a member of the household, possibly Uncle himself, expressly to annoy him, Foma. There ensued tears, reproaches and wailing in abundance. By evening the General’s Lady had fallen ill, and everybody in the house put on a long face. Only one slender hope remained, that on the following, that is the third night, Falaley might still save the day with a vision of refined society. What was the general indignation, then, when every night for a whole week running, Falaley dreamt of the white bull and the white bull alone, with not a single glimpse of refined society.