But the most curious thing of all was that it never occurred to Falaley to tell a lie, simply to say for instance that, instead of the white bull, he had seen a carriageful of ladies with Foma in their midst; and all the more so since under the circumstances a lie would have constituted no grave transgression. But Falaley was incapable of deceit, even had he desired it. Nobody even tried to put the idea in his head. Everyone knew that he would betray himself the moment he opened his mouth, and Foma would immediately catch him out. What was to be done? Uncle’s predicament grew unbearable and Falaley remained incorrigible. The poor boy even grew thin with worry. Malanya, the house-keeper, declared that he had fallen under the evil eye, and she sprinkled him with charcoal dipped in holy water. The tender-hearted Praskovya Ilyinichna assisted her in this salutary operation. But even that failed to bring results. Nothing seemed to be of any use!

  ‘The devil take that creature!’ Falaley kept repeating. ‘Every night I see it! Every night I say my prayers: “Don’t dream about the white bull, don’t dream about the white bull!” And then there he is, the dreadful thing, standing in front of me with his horns, fat-lipped and huge. Ugh!’

  Uncle was desperate. Fortunately, however, Foma Fomich suddenly seemed to forget about the white bull. Of course, nobody thought it likely for a moment that he could totally neglect such an important matter. Rather it was assumed with trepidation that he was merely amassing evidence to make the better use of it at the first opportune moment. In due course it turned out that the white bull was in fact of secondary importance to him, and that he had other tasks, other projects growing and ripening in his resourceful and prolific mind. This is why Falaley was granted respite. Everybody breathed a sigh of relief. The lad grew merry and even began to forget what had happened; even the white bull began to appear less frequently in his dreams, although now and again it still reared its phantom head. In short, everything would have been perfectly all right had it not been for the komarinsky.

  It must be observed that Falaley was an excellent dancer; it was his principal skill, something approaching a vocation; he danced with inexhaustible energy and abandon, and he was especially fond of the ‘komarinsky muzhik’. Not that he had any liking for the frivolous and inexplicable behaviour of the ne’er-do-well peasant — no, he liked to dance the komarinsky simply because to listen to the komarinsky and not to dance to it was totally impossible for him. Sometimes, in the evening, two or three house servants, the coachmen, the gardener, who played the fiddle, and even a few of the ladies’ maids, would gather in some remote spot on the estate, to escape Foma’s attention, music and dancing would begin, and then finally and triumphantly, the whole event would be crowned by the komarinsky. The band consisted of two balalaikas, a guitar, a fiddle and a tambourine which the coachboy Mitushka handled with consummate skill. What Falaley then got up to had to be seen to be believed: egged on by the cries and laughter of the audience, he danced himself into a state of frenzy and total exhaustion; he whooped, shouted, laughed and clapped his hands; he danced as if impelled from within by an intangible force over which he had no control as he stamped his heels and strained to catch up with the ever-increasing tempo of the infectious tune. These were moments of pure delight for him, and everything would have turned out happily had not rumour of the komarinsky finally reached Foma Fomich.

  Foma was shocked and immediately sent for the Colonel.

  ‘Pray tell me one thing, Colonel,’ he began. ‘Is it, or is it not, your final intention to ruin this poor idiot? If it is, then I shall not interfere; if not, then I …’

  ‘What is it? What has happened?’ Uncle exclaimed, panic-stricken.

  ‘What has happened? Do you realize he was dancing the komarinsky?’

  ‘Well … what about it?’

  ‘What do you mean, “What about it?”’ roared Foma. ‘How can you say such a thing? You who are their master and, in a sense, their father! Have you any idea what the komarinsky stands for? Do you know that this song depicts a vile peasant in a state of drunkenness, who was about to commit a highly immoral act? Do you realize what this debauched yokel did? He violated the most sacred ties, and as it were trampled upon them with his huge peasant boots that are accustomed to nothing but stomping the floors of drinking dens! Do you realize that your reply has insulted my noblest feelings? Do you realize that your reply has insulted me personally? Do you realize all this, or not?’

  ‘But Foma … it’s only a song, Foma …’

  ‘What do you mean, only a song! And you are not ashamed to admit you know this song — you, a member of decent society, a father of fine and innocent children and a Colonel to boot! Only a song! I’m sure this song is based on a real occurrence! Only a song! How can a person with a grain of propriety admit that he knows this song without dying of shame, that he has even heard of it? How, how?’

  ‘Well, you have, Foma, seeing as you are asking,’ Uncle replied in all simplicity and confusion.

  ‘What was that? I know? Me … Me, you really mean me! The insolence!’ Foma Fomich suddenly yelled, jumping to his feet and choking with anger. He never expected such a stunning reply.

  I shall not attempt to describe Foma Fomich’s rage. The custodian of morality banished the Colonel from his sight for the indecency and ineptitude of his reply. Foma Fomich now swore to apprehend Falaley at the scene of the crime, as he danced the komarinsky. In the evenings, when everybody thought that he was occupied with some task in hand, he would steal out into the garden and, skirting the vegetable beds, conceal himself in the hemp, from where there was a good view of the patch of ground on which the dancing was supposed to take place. He lay in wait for poor Falaley like a hunter stalking his prey, and gleefully looked forward to the distress he would bring upon the whole household, and especially upon Uncle, if ever he were successful. At last his unrelenting vigilance was rewarded: he caught Falaley at the komarinsky!

  No wonder, then, that Uncle was beside himself when he saw the boy in tears and heard Vidoplyasov solemnly announcing Foma Fomich, who was about to make his unexpected personal appearance at a very awkward moment for us all.

  7

  Foma Fomich

  I studied this gentleman with intense curiosity. Gavrila was quite right in referring to him as a shabby sort of man. Foma Fomich was short of stature, with greying fair hair, a hooked nose and face densely lined with tiny wrinkles. A large wart sat prominently on his chin. He entered the room with an even gait, his eyes lowered to the ground. Nonetheless his features and pedantic bearing exuded an air of arrogant self-assurance. To my surprise he appeared in a dressing-gown — of foreign cut, true, but in a dressing-gown all the same — and in bedroom slippers. The collar of his open-necked shirt was neatly folded back à l’enfant, and this made him look exceedingly ridiculous. He went up to a vacant chair, moved it up to the table and sat down without uttering a word. In an instant all the excitement and commotion had ceased. The silence became so intense that one could have heard a pin drop. The General’s Lady went as quiet as a lamb. The reverence in which this poor idiot held Foma Fomich now became clear to see. She could not stop admiring her treasure, and feasted her eyes upon him. Miss Perepelitsyna bared her teeth and rubbed her hands, while poor Praskovya Ilyinichna shivered visibly from fright. Uncle immediately began to fuss.

  ‘Tea, tea, sister darling! Plenty of sugar, dearest! Foma likes his tea sweet after his sleep. You do, don’t you, Foma?’

  ‘I’ve no time for tea now,’ Foma Fomich pronounced with slow deliberation, waving his hand with an abstracted air. ‘All you care about is making things sweet.’

  These words, and the ludicrously affected dignity of his entry, greatly aroused my interest. I was curious to know what extremes of indecency this insolent little humbug of a man was capable of reaching.

  ‘Foma!’ Uncle exclaimed, ‘may I introduce my nephew, Sergey Aleksandrovich! He has just arrived.’

  Foma Fomich surveyed Uncle from head to toe.

  ‘I’m surprised you so systematically insist on interrupting me, Colonel,’ he said after a pregnant pause, paying me not the slightest attention. ‘You are spoken to about important matters, and you go off … at a tangent … Have you seen Falaley?’

  ‘I have, Foma …’

  ‘Oh, you have, have you! Well, you shall see him again. Take a good look at your masterpiece … in the moral sense, that is. Come here, you idiot! Come here, you Dutch-faced moron! Come on, move yourself! Don’t be afraid!’

  Falaley approached open-mouthed, gulping down his tears in a convulsion of sobs. Foma Fomich viewed him with sinister delight.

  ‘I called him a Dutch-faced moron deliberately, Pavel Semyonych,’ he remarked, making himself comfortable in his armchair and half-turning to Obnoskin who was sitting next to him. ‘I find it quite unnecessary ever to mince words. Truth must out. No matter how you cover up filth, filth it will remain. So why go to the trouble of deceiving oneself and others? Only a stupid society dim-wit could conceive of such senseless niceties. Judge for yourself — can you detect anything beautiful in that face? I mean refined, beautiful, noble, and not just an ugly red mug?’

  Foma Fomich spoke with haughty indifference in a soft, measured drawl.

  ‘Him, beautiful?’ Obnoskin replied with a dismissive sneer. ‘All he reminds me of is a good piece of roast beef, that’s all.’

  ‘Happened to stand in front of the mirror today and had a close look’ continued Foma Fomich, solemnly omitting the pronoun ‘I’. ‘Far be it from me to regard myself as handsome, but I was nevertheless obliged to conclude that there is something in this grey eye of mine to distinguish me from the Falaleys of this world. There is thought, there is life, there is wit in this eye. I’m not just praising myself. I’m speaking of our class in general. Now tell me, do you think that this lump of raw beef could have the least trace, the least particle of a soul in it? No, really, Pavel Semyonych, observe the revoltingly coarse freshness, the stupid freshness in the complexion of these people who feed on nothing but beef and lack all power and thought and imagination. Would you care to find out the range of his intellect? Here, you object! Come closer, let’s have a good look at you! And shut your mouth! You’re not trying to swallow a whale! Are you beautiful? Answer: are you beautiful?’

  ‘I am beau-ti-ful,’ Falaley replied, amid stifled sobs.

  Obnoskin rolled about with laughter. I felt myself beginning to shake with anger.

  ‘Did you hear that?’ Foma Fomich went on, turning triumphantly to Obnoskin. ‘And that’s not all! I’ve come to give him a test. You see, Pavel Semyonych, there are people who have an interest in corrupting and undoing this pathetic idiot. I may judge too harshly, maybe I’m wrong, but I speak out of love for mankind. Just now he danced the most indecent of dances. Yet no one here seems to care. But now you can hear for yourselves. Answer: what did you do? Answer, answer at once, do you hear?’

  ‘I — danced …’ Falaley gasped with redoubled sobs.

  ‘What did you dance? What is the name of the dance? Speak up!’

  ‘The komarinsky …’

  ‘The komarinsky? And who is this “Komarinsky”? What does “komarinsky” mean? Do you expect me to make sense of such a reply? Well then, give us some idea: who is this Komarinsky of yours?’

  ‘A pea-sant …’

  ‘A peasant! Just a peasant? I’m surprised! Then it follows he must be a wonderful peasant! It follows he is some famous peasant, if there are poems and dances composed in his honour? Well, answer!’

  It was in Foma Fomich’s nature to indulge in slow, deliberate inquisition. He played cat and mouse with his victim; but Falaley sobbed wordlessly, utterly confounded by the question.

  ‘Answer me!’ Foma Fomich insisted. ‘I’m asking you — What kind of peasant was he supposed to be? Speak! Was he a manorial peasant, a crown peasant, a free peasant, a bonded or economical peasant? There are all kinds of peasants.’

  ‘E-co-no-mi-cal …’

  ‘Ah, economical! Did you hear that, Pavel Semyonych? A new historical fact: Komarinsky was an economical peasant. Hm! … Well, what did this economist peasant do? What were his achievements, now that he is being celebrated in song … and dance?’

  The question was awkward and fraught with danger in as much as it was directed at Falaley.

  ‘Now … now …’ Obnoskin said, after glancing at his mother, who was beginning to shift uneasily on the sofa. But there was nothing to be done. Foma Fomich’s caprices were a law unto the household.

  ‘Please, Uncle, if you don’t restrain this fool, he’ll … Do you see what he’s getting at? Falaley will talk himself into trouble, I assure you …’ I whispered to Uncle, who seemed lost and totally irresolute.

  ‘Listen now, Foma …’ he began, ‘may I introduce my nephew to you, a young man who has studied mineralogy …’

  ‘I beg you, Colonel, not to interrupt me with your mineralogy, of which, as far as I am aware, you know nothing, and that goes for the others too probably. I’m not a child. He will reply to me that this peasant, instead of toiling for the good of his family, got blind drunk, drank away his sheepskin in a tavern and ran sozzled into the street. Such, as we all know, is the content of a poem extolling drunkenness. Have no fear, now he knows what to reply — well, speak up: what did this peasant do? I’ve helped you all the way, I’ve put the words into your mouth. Now I want to hear you speak: what did he do to distinguish himself, whence his fame, whence his claim to immortality, that even troubadours sing of him? Well!’

  The unfortunate Falaley kept looking around in utter bewilderment and distress, not knowing what to say, opening and shutting his mouth like a gasping carp left to lie out on the sand.

  ‘I’m too ashamed — to say!’ he brought out at last, in utter despair.

  ‘Ah — too ashamed!’ echoed Foma Fomich triumphantly. ‘That’s just the reply I was after, Colonel! Ashamed to speak, but not ashamed to misbehave? That’s the morality which you have sown, which has sprouted and which you are now … watering. But let us not waste words! Off with you to the kitchen, Falaley. I shan’t say anything more to you in deference to the company present; but today without fail you will be punished, severely and painfully punished. If not, if I am to be thwarted yet again for your sake, then stay here and entertain your gentlefolk with your komarinsky, I shall not remain a moment longer in this house! Enough! I have spoken. Go!’

  ‘Well now, it seems to me that is rather severe …’ murmured Obnoskin.

  ‘Indeed, indeed, indeed!’ Uncle was about to say something, but stopped abruptly as Foma Fomich fixed his menacing gaze upon him.

  ‘I’m astounded, Pavel Semyonych,’ he continued. ‘What do our modern men of letters do — our poets, scholars and thinkers? Why do they pay no attention to what songs the people of Russia sing, what songs the Russian people dance to? What have all these Pushkins, Lermontovs, Borozdnas been doing up to now? I am astonished! People are dancing the komarinsky, this apotheosis of drunkenness, and all we get from them are the praises they sing to forget-me-nots! Why don’t they compose more edifying songs for the use of the people, and give up their forget-me-nots? Here we have a social problem! Let them portray a peasant, but an ennobled peasant, a settled and responsible villager and not simply a peasant. Let them portray a rural sage in all his simplicity, wearing bast shoes if need be — I’ll accept even that — but enhanced by virtues, which — I say this without fear — may even be the envy of some greatly overrated Alexander the Great. I know Russia and Mother Russia knows me: that’s precisely why I’m saying this. Let them portray this peasant, if they like, burdened by family responsibilities, advancing old age, cooped up in a stuffy hut and maybe starving too, yet perfectly content and uncomplaining, glorifying his poverty and indifferent to the gold of the wealthy. Now let the rich man, his heart moved to tenderness, bring his gold to him; let there even be a merging between the peasant’s virtues and the virtues of his lord and maybe master. The rustic and the lord, placed so far apart on the ladder of society, are finally united in their virtues — there’s an elevated thought! But what do we see? On the one hand, forget-me-nots — on the other, a disorderly wretch running through the streets after drinking in a tavern! Well, what is poetic about such a sight? What is there to admire in it? Where is the wit, the grace, the morality? It defeats me!’

  ‘A hundred rubles I owe you, Foma Fomich, for such words!’ breathed Yezhevikin, his eyes filled with rapture.

  ‘The devil he’ll get it,’ he whispered to me softly. ‘Flattery, flattery!’

  ‘Yes, yes … what a beautiful picture you painted,’ Obnoskin said.

  ‘Indeed, indeed, indeed!’ exclaimed Uncle who had been listening with profound attention and eyeing me triumphantly all the while.

  ‘What a topic!’ he whispered, rubbing his hands. ‘A many-sided conversation indeed, damn it! Foma, this is my nephew,’ he added, overcome by emotion. ‘He has studied literature too — may I introduce him.’

  Foma Fomich, as before, paid not the slightest attention to Uncle’s introduction.

  ‘For God’s sake, stop introducing me! I really mean it,’ I whispered sternly.

  ‘Ivan Ivanych!’ Foma Fomich suddenly began again, turning to Mizinchikov and fixing him with a steadfast gaze, ‘what would your opinion be regarding what we have been talking about?’