‘Me? You’re asking me?’ said Mizinchikov in surprise, as though he had just been woken up.

  ‘Yes, you sir. I’m asking you because I value the views of truly clever people, as opposed to those of doubtful sages whose only claim to wit is that they are constantly being proclaimed as wits and scholars, and are sometimes specially sent for to be paraded, as in some fairground booth.’

  This thrust was clearly aimed at me. And there was not the slightest doubt that Foma Fomich, while doing his best to ignore me, had initiated this conversation about literature solely in order to blind, destroy and put down at one blow the would-be wit and scholar from St Petersburg. I at any rate had no doubt that this was the case.

  ‘If you wish to know my opinion, then I … I completely agree with all you say,’ was Mizinchikov’s apathetic and reluctant reply.

  ‘You all agree with me! This is beginning to get rather sickening,’ Foma Fomich observed. ‘Let me tell you frankly, Pavel Semyonych,’ he continued after a brief silence, turning to Obnoskin again, ‘if there is one thing for which I respect the immortal Karamzin, it is not his History, not Marfa Posadnitsa or Russia Old and New, but because he wrote Frol Silin: a grand epos — true people’s art, destined to live to the end of time! Epos in the grand manner indeed!’

  ‘Indeed, indeed, indeed! grand epoch! Frol Silin, a charitable man! I remember reading it: he bought the freedom of two more wenches and then cast his eyes to heaven and wept. Nobility indeed,’ Uncle concurred, beaming with delight.

  Poor Uncle! He was utterly unable to resist joining in a learned conversation. Foma Fomich contorted his face into a malicious grin, but said nothing.

  ‘There are entertaining writers today too,’ Anfisa Petrovna cautiously put in. ‘Take The Mysteries of Brussels, for example.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have said so,’ replied Foma Fomich in a tone of regret. ‘I read one poem recently. Nothing very much — another forget-me-not! But if you will, of the modernists I admire “The Scribe” best of all — such lightness of touch!’

  ‘“The Scribe”!’ Anfisa Petrovna exclaimed, ‘the one who writes letters for the magazine? Oh, how enchanting he is! What witty play with words!’

  ‘Precisely, his play with words. He plays with the pen, so to speak. Incredible felicity of style!’

  ‘Yes, but he is a pedant,’ Obnoskin remarked nonchalantly.

  ‘A pedant, a pedant he may well be — I don’t dispute it; but a charming pedant, a gracious pedant! True, not one of his ideas will stand up to serious criticism; but the ease of his style is disarming. He is a windbag — I agree; but what a charming, what a stylish one! For instance, you remember in one literary essay he speaks of owning some estates?’

  ‘Estates?’ Uncle echoed, ‘That’s good! Which province?’

  Foma Fomich paused, measured Uncle with a piercing look, and continued in the same tone as before: ‘Can somebody please tell me in plain language: why should I, the reader, need to know that he is a man of property? If he is — good luck to him! But how charmingly, how amusingly he refers to it! He sparkles with wit, he bubbles over with it, he’s on fire with it! He’s a fountain of wit! That’s the way to write! I believe that’s how I would have written, if, that is, I had consented to write for publication …’

  ‘Maybe even better,’ Yezhevikin remarked respectfully.

  ‘There is something melodious in his imagery!’ Uncle added.

  Foma Fomich’s patience was at an end.

  ‘Colonel,’ he said, ‘may I ask you — with all due respect, of course — to let us finish our discussion in peace and not interrupt. You have nothing to contribute to our discussion, nothing! So please do not disturb our agreeable literary discussion. Go about your own business, drink tea, but … leave literature alone. It’ll be to its advantage entirely, I can assure you!’

  This overstepped all bounds of propriety. I was speechless.

  ‘But you said yourself, Foma, there was something melodious …’ Uncle brought out, sadly perplexed.

  ‘Agreed, sir. But when I spoke, I knew what I was talking about, which is more than can be said for you!’

  ‘Yes, we certainly know what’s what,’ Yezhevikin chimed in, twisting and turning at Foma Fomich’s side. ‘Not that our brains amount to a great deal — we have to work hard with what we’ve got, there’s just enough to manage two ministries, but we’re willing to take on a third — that’s how we are.’

  ‘Well, I’ve done it again!’ Uncle concluded with his usual good-natured smile.

  ‘At least he admits it,’ remarked Foma Fomich.

  ‘It’s all right, Foma, I’m not angry. I know you pulled me up just then for my own good, as a friend, a brother. It was me that told you to do it, I actually asked you to do it. It was only right and proper, for my own good in the end! I thank you kindly, and I’ll take heed!’

  My patience was beginning to wear thin. All I had previously heard about Foma Fomich had seemed somewhat exaggerated. Now that I was able to see it all for myself, my astonishment knew no bounds. I could not believe my own eyes; I could not reconcile the insolence, the unabashed arrogance on the one hand, with the self-imposed bondage, the credulous good nature on the other. Furthermore, it was clear that even Uncle was shocked by such a display of impudence. I was aching for a confrontation with Foma Fomich, aching for a clash so as to insult him to the quick — whatever the consequences! The thought of it lent me strength. An opportunity was all I needed, and in my eager expectation I completely crumpled up the brim of my hat. But the opportunity never presented itself. Foma Fomich steadfastly refused to acknowledge my presence.

  ‘You’re right, Foma, every inch of the way,’ Uncle continued, doing his best to recover himself and to make up for the acrimony of what had just been said. ‘You hit the nail on the head, Foma, and I thank you. Never speak unless you know what you’re talking about. I confess, though, it’s not the first time I’ve been in such a predicament. Imagine, Sergey, I once even sat on an examination panel … You’re laughing! Well, there you are! I really did — funny, isn’t it? Somebody invited me to an educational establishment to attend an examination, and placed me amongst the examiners as a mark of distinction because there was a vacant place to fill. I’m afraid my heart sank within me, I was positively scared; I didn’t know a single subject! What was I to do? Supposing I myself had been called upon to explain something at the blackboard? Everything turned out all right in the end; I even managed to put in a question or two myself, such as: Who was Noah? I got excellent answers, on the whole; we had lunch afterwards and drank champagne to the flourishing of learning. An excellent establishment.’

  Foma Fomich and Obnoskin were helpless with laughter.

  ‘I couldn’t stop laughing at the time, either,’ Uncle exclaimed, sharing in the mirth in the most good-natured way, pleased that things had taken such a jovial turn. ‘Now, Foma, here goes. Just to amuse you all I’ll tell you how I once really did come a cropper … Imagine us, Sergey, stationed at the time in Krasnogorsk …’

  ‘Permit me to ask you, Colonel: how long is this story of yours going to take?’ Foma Fomich interrupted.

  ‘Oh, Foma! It’s a marvellous story; you’ll die laughing. Just listen: it’s good, I swear it really is good. I’ll tell you how I came a cropper.’

  ‘It’s always such a pleasure to listen to that sort of story from you,’ Obnoskin drawled with a yawn.

  ‘We can’t help it, we’ll have to listen,’ decided Foma Fomich.

  ‘Yes, really, my God, it will be good, Foma. It’ll show you how I really came a cropper once, Anfisa Petrovna. You listen too, Sergey: it’ll be a lesson to you. We were stationed at Krasnogorsk.’ (Uncle began speaking rapidly with countless parentheses and beaming with excitement, as he always did when setting out to tell a story for his listeners’ amusement.) ‘On the evening that we arrived, we all went to the theatre. There was a marvellous actress, Kuropatkina; later she ran off with the Cavalry Captain Zverkov in the middle of a performance; the curtain had to be brought down … Zverkov was a real devil for drinking and gambling — not that he was a drunkard, but there was never a dull moment with him. When he really hit the bottle, my word, he’d forget everything: his address, the country he was living in, his own name — everything; deep down a likeable fellow all the same … Anyway, there I am in the theatre. In the interval I happened to meet my old friend Kornoukhov … splendid fellow. Hadn’t seen him for about six years. Well, he’d been in action, his chest was covered in medals … heard the other day he’s joined the civil service, and going up and up … We were glad to see each other. We talked of this and that. In the box next to ours sat three ladies. The one on the left was as ugly as sin … Later it turned out she was a most excellent lady, mother of a family, happily married … So like a fool, I blurted out to Kornoukhov: “Tell me, friend, who is that scarecrow?” “Which one?” “That one.” “That’s my cousin.” You can imagine how the devil I felt! So to make up for it: “No, not that one. Can’t you see! That one sitting opposite: who’s she?” “That’s my sister.” Damnation! And what’s more, she was as pretty as a rose bud, a peach; decked out like an angel — gloves, brooches, bracelets; later she got married to a splendid fellow called Pykhtin; she eloped and married him without getting her parents’ consent: but that’s all over now and they’re living in the lap of luxury; the in-laws are as happy as can be … So anyway: “No, no!” I cried, wishing the ground would swallow me up. “Not that one! The one in the middle!” “The one in the middle? Well, my friend, that’s my wife …” Between you and me there was never a more handsome woman! You could swallow her whole and smack your lips … “Well now,” I said, “have you ever seen a real fool? If not, there’s one before you now. Here’s his head: you can chop it right off!” He just laughed. After the performance he introduced us and the scoundrel probably told them all that had happened. I could tell it by the way they laughed! Must admit, I had the time of my life with them. So you see, Foma, my friend, one can really come a cropper sometimes! Ha-ha-ha!’

  But poor Uncle laughed in vain; his kind and merry glances, which he pleadingly cast around the room, were to no avail: a stony silence greeted his merry story. Foma Fomich sat gloomy and mute and so did everybody else; only Obnoskin smiled faintly in anticipation of the dressing-down which was now to follow. Uncle was overcome with confusion and embarrassment. That was just what Foma Fomich was waiting for.

  ‘Have you quite finished?’ he asked, turning haughtily toward the embarrassed storyteller.

  ‘Yes, Foma.’

  ‘And are you happy?’

  ‘What do you mean, happy, Foma?’ poor Uncle replied, pained.

  ‘Do you feel better now? Are you pleased at disrupting a pleasant literary discussion amongst friends to satisfy your own petty vanity?’

  ‘Oh, Foma! I only wanted to amuse you all, but you —’

  ‘Amuse us?’ Foma cried, flaring up with indignation. ‘All you can do is bore people, not amuse them. You think you’re amusing! Do you realize your story bordered on the immoral — quite apart from being indecent? It’s plain to anyone. Just now you announced, betraying an astonishing lack of sensibility, that you ridiculed an innocent and noble lady simply because she did not have the honour of being attractive to you. What’s more, you wanted us to laugh and thereby condone your rude and shocking behaviour, and all because you are the master of this house! It’s up to you, Colonel; you may seek toadies, flatterers, partners, you may even summon them from far-off lands to increase the strength of your entourage in violation of all decent humane principles; but never will Foma Opiskin become a yes-man, a boot-licker, a hanger-on of yours! Anything else — but not that, I assure you! …’

  ‘Oh, Foma! you really have misunderstood me, Foma!’

  ‘No, Colonel, I know your type; I saw through you long ago! You are consumed by insatiable self-love; you have pretensions to be a master of wit, forgetting that pretension is the very death of wit. You …’

  ‘Foma, for goodness’ sake! Have you no shame before all these people!’

  ‘Colonel, how do you expect me to see all this and keep silent; it saddens me, and I can’t keep silent. I’m poor, I’m surviving on the bounty of your mother. My silence may be misconstrued as flattery; and I don’t want some milksop to regard me as your toady! Perhaps when I entered this room a short while ago I purposely exaggerated my blunt frankness; I may have been forced to the point of rudeness, solely because you left me no alternative. You are too high-handed with me, Colonel. I may be looked upon as your slave, your lackey. It may be your pleasure to demean me in front of strangers, whereas in point of fact I am your equal, do you hear me, sir? Equal in every respect! It may even be I who am doing you a favour by residing with you. I am being insulted; hence it is my duty to exalt myself — that’s natural! I cannot keep silent, I have to speak out, I must protest immediately, and I therefore flatly and openly declare that you are a monstrously jealous man. For instance, you observed how, in the course of a simple, friendly discussion, somebody spontaneously revealed his erudition, his knowledge of literature, his taste; and you’re immediately consumed with jealousy and you say to yourself: “I must show off my taste and erudition too!” And may I ask what taste you have to speak of! You have about as much appreciation of beauty and refinement, if I may say so, Colonel, as a bull has of the Holy Scriptures! That was rude and cruel, I admit; but at least it was honest and just. None of your toadies will ever tell you anything like that, Colonel.’

  ‘Oh, Foma! …’

  ‘“Oh, Foma”, indeed. It hurts to know the truth. Well — we’ll talk about this some other time, but now allow me my turn to entertain the company a little. The right isn’t exclusively yours, you know. Pavel Semyonych, have you seen this sea monster in human form? I’ve been watching him for a long time now. Look at him closely: he wants to devour me, gobble me up alive in one gulp!’

  The reference was to Gavrila. The old servant was standing by the door, looking on with considerable distress at the treatment meted out to his master.

  ‘I too want to entertain you with an amusing spectacle, Pavel Semyonych. Listen, you scarecrow, come here! Closer, closer, if it be your pleasure, Gavrila Ignatych! — You see, Pavel Semyonych, this is Gavrila; as a punishment for his insolence he is studying the French dialect. I, like Orpheus, wish to mellow the morals of the crowd, but with the French dialect instead of songs. Well, Frenchman, Monsieur Chematon — he can’t stand being called Monsieur Chematon — do you know your lesson?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve learnt it,’ replied Gavrila, his head hung low.

  ‘And parlez-vous français?’

  ‘Oui, monsieur, je-le-parle-on-purr …’

  I don’t know if it was Gavrila’s doleful expression when he spoke the French sentence or if it was in anticipation of Foma Fomich’s desire that everybody should laugh, but as soon as Gavrila opened his mouth everybody simply doubled up with laughter. Even the General’s Lady could not forbear to join in. Anfisa Petrovna threw herself back in the settee and shrieked a high-pitched falsetto, hiding her face behind her fan. The general mirth reached its peak when Gavrila, seeing what the examination had turned into, could not contain himself any longer, spat, and pronounced with indignation:

  ‘To think I’d live to bear such shame in my old age!’

  Foma Fomich started.

  ‘What? What did you say? Are you being insolent?’

  ‘No, Foma Fomich,’ replied Gavrila with dignity, ‘what I have to say is no impudence, and it’s not for me, your underling, to insult a born gentleman such as you be. But each and every man bears the image and likeness of God. I’ve passed the ripe old age of sixty-two. My father could remember the monster Pugachov, and my grandfather, together with his master, Matvey Nikitich — may their souls rest in everlasting peace — were both hanged by Pugachov on the same tree: for this my father was honoured above all others by our late master Afanasy Matveyich who made him his valet, and he ended his days as the master’s steward. And I, sir, even though I am just a common serf, I’ve never seen such shame as this in all my born days!’

  With these words Gavrila spread out his hands and bowed his head. Uncle regarded him with an anxious eye.

  ‘Now, now, Gavrila!’ he exclaimed. ‘No need to go on like that; that’ll do!’

  ‘Leave him, leave him,’ said Foma Fomich, growing pale and forcing himself to smile. ‘Let him have his say; this is all your doing …’

  ‘Yes, I’ll say everything,’ Gavrila continued, in a peak of excitement, ‘I’ll hold back nothing! You can tie my hands but not my tongue! I stand a poor wretch before you, Foma Fomich, in a word a slave, but I can feel insult. I’m forever bound to you in service and submission, because I was born a slave and I must carry out every duty to my master, in fear and trembling. If you sit down to write a book, I must stop anyone annoying you — that’s the nature of my duty. If you desire any service — I’ll always do it with the greatest of pleasure. But having me yap in some outlandish tongue in my old age and be laughed at by others! I can’t go into the servants’ quarters now without someone saying: “A Frenchman, a Frenchman!” No, sir, it’s not just a fool like me, other good people too have been saying in one voice that you’ve turned into a cruel and vicious person, that our master is just like a little child before you; you may well have been born a general’s son, and probably weren’t far off a general’s rank yourself — but now I must say, you’ve turned into a thorough fiend.’

  Gavrila stopped. I was beside myself with exultation. In the confusion which ensued Foma Fomich sat pale with rage, unable to recover himself after Gavrila’s sudden onslaught; he seemed to be debating how far to give vent to his anger. At last he exploded.

  ‘What! he dared to abuse me — me! Open rebellion!’ he yelled, jumping up from his chair.

  Even the General’s Lady sprang to her feet, and clasped her hands. Total commotion followed. Uncle rushed forward and jostled the delinquent Gavrila out of the room.