‘When?’

  ‘Last night. Vidoplyasov delivered it to him at crack of dawn. I set everything out before him on two pages, I told the whole story frankly and truthfully. In short, I made it clear that I must, I simply must — you understand? — propose to Nastenka. I begged him not to say anything about our meeting in the garden and appealed to all that is holy in him to intercede for me with Mother. I didn’t make a good job of it, I know, but I wrote straight from the heart and wept tears over it, so to speak …’

  ‘And what’s happened? Any reply?’

  ‘Not so far; only as we were setting out on our chase this morning, I met him in the hall. He was just out of bed and still in his slippers and nightcap — he wears one in bed. He didn’t say a word, didn’t even look up. I peered into his face like this, from below — not a word!’

  ‘Uncle, don’t trust him; he’ll play some dirty trick on you.’

  ‘No, no, my boy, don’t say that!’ Uncle exclaimed, wringing his hands. ‘I’m sure he won’t. Anyway, it’s my only hope. He’ll understand: he’ll appreciate … He can be difficult and capricious — I wouldn’t deny that; but the moment he’s called upon to show his nobility, he’ll shine like a pearl … yes, just like a pearl. The trouble is, Sergey, you haven’t seen him at his noble best … But, my God! If he were to reveal yesterday’s secret, then … I really don’t know what would happen then, Sergey! What will be left in this world to believe in! But no, he couldn’t be such a scoundrel. I’m not worth the ground he’s treading on. Stop shaking your head, my boy; it’s true — I’m not!’

  ‘Yegor Ilyich! Mamma is worried about you!’ Miss Perepelitsyna’s unpleasant voice resounded from below; she had evidently been listening at the open window and had overheard the whole of our conversation. ‘Everybody’s looking for you, where are you?’

  ‘Good God, I’m late! More trouble!’ Uncle exclaimed with a start. ‘Sergey, in God’s name, get dressed and come down! I came to collect you so that we could go together … Coming, coming, Anna Nilovna, I’m coming!’

  Left alone, I remembered about my meeting with Nastenka and was glad that I had kept quiet about it to Uncle — it would only have caused him additional distress. I anticipated a terrible row and could not for the life of me see how Uncle would be able to settle his affairs and brave himself to make his proposal to Nastenka. In spite of all my faith in his sense of honour, I will repeat that I was nevertheless dubious of his chances of success.

  However, there was no time to waste. It was my duty to help him and I immediately began to get changed. While I was smartening myself up, which took me some time, Mizinchikov entered.

  ‘I’ve come to fetch you,’ he said. ‘Yegor Ilyich wants you downstairs immediately.’

  ‘Off we go, then.’

  I was now ready. We went out.

  ‘What’s happening there?’ I asked on the way.

  ‘Foma has assembled everybody,’ Mizinchikov replied. ‘He’s not throwing tantrums, but he’s gone all pensive and won’t say much, just keeps mumbling something through his teeth. He even gave Ilyusha a kiss — of course, Yegor Ilyich was absolutely delighted. You see, he’s instructed Perepelitsyna to say he’s not to be congratulated on the anniversary of his name-day, and that he merely wanted to test our good faith … The old woman is still sniffing her smelling salts, but she’s much less trouble now that Foma has settled down. Nobody’s breathing a word about what happened this morning — it’s as though it never happened. As long as Foma keeps quiet, everyone else does too. He wouldn’t let anybody near him the whole morning even though the old woman begged him by all the saints to come down for a discussion; she even stood at his door trying to force her way in; but he locked himself in and answered that he was praying for mankind or something of that sort. He’s hatching something: I can tell by his face. But Yegor Ilyich is incapable of reading people’s faces, he’s in his seventh heaven at Foma’s mildness now. What a child he is! Ilyusha has brought along some poem and I’ve been sent to fetch you.’

  ‘And Tatyana Ivanovna?’

  ‘What about Tatyana Ivanovna?’

  ‘Is she there too? With the rest of them?’

  ‘No; she’s in her own room,’ Mizinchikov replied curtly. ‘She’s resting and crying. Maybe she’s ashamed? I think that governess is there with her now. What’s this? Looks like a storm brewing. Look at the sky!’

  ‘Yes, very likely a storm,’ I replied, glancing at the darkening rainclouds looming over the horizon.

  We were mounting the steps of the terrace.

  ‘But what about Obnoskin, eh?’ I continued, unable to resist drawing Mizinchikov on this point.

  ‘Don’t talk to me about him! Don’t ever mention that scoundrel to me!’ he exclaimed, stopping suddenly, stamping his foot and going very red in the face. ‘The fool! the fool! To bungle such a brilliant idea! Listen: to be very frank, I’m an ass for not seeing through his tricks, and perhaps that’s just the sort of admission you wanted from me? If he’d only managed to pull it all off, I swear I would have forgiven him — perhaps! The fool, the fool! Why does society keep and tolerate such people? Why aren’t they sent to Siberia, into exile, hard labour! But they’re all wrong! I’m not one to be outsmarted! At least I’ve learnt my lesson and we’ll see who comes out best now. I’m working on another plan at the moment … Look, why should I be the loser just because some idiot from nowhere pinched my idea and then couldn’t put it into practice? You must admit, it’s unfair! And anyway, this Tatyana Ivanovna must get married — it’s her vocation. If no one has locked her up in an asylum yet, it’s only because she’s still eligible. Let me tell you what my new plan is —’

  ‘No, perhaps later,’ I interrupted him. ‘Look, here we are.’

  ‘All right, all right, later!’ Mizinchikov replied, his face contorted in a smile. ‘And now … where are you off to? I told you, we’re going straight to Foma! Follow me; you’ve not been there before. You’re about to see another comedy … Since comedy is all the rage here …’

  3

  Ilyusha’s Name-day

  Foma fomich occupied two large, magnificent rooms, which were decorated better than any of the others in the house. The great man resided in splendid comfort. Beautiful new wallpaper, bright silk curtains at the windows, carpets, a full-length mirror, an open logfire, comfortable, elegant furniture — everything spoke of the tender regard in which Foma Fomich was held by his hosts. Flower pots were arranged on window-sills and on little round marble tables by the windows. In the middle of the study stood a large writing-desk, its top furnished in heavy red fabric, piled high with books and manuscripts. A splendid bronze inkstand and a bundle of pens, cared for and maintained by Vidoplyasov himself — all this seemed to testify to Foma Fomich’s remarkable intellectual assiduity. I should perhaps add here that after spending eight years at this desk, Foma did not manage to produce anything of any consequence. In the end, after his departure to a better world, when we came to sort out his manuscripts, we discovered that they were a mass of utter rubbish. We found the beginning of an historical novel depicting life in seventh-century Novgorod; then a dreadful poem, ‘Anchoret at the Graveyard’, written in blank verse; then an absurd discourse on the significance and character of the Russian muzhik and how to handle him; and finally, a tale of society life, ‘Countess Vlonskaya’, also unfinished. That was all. And yet Foma Fomich had been compelling Uncle to take out expensive annual subscriptions to books and journals, many of which had not even had their pages cut. I do in fact remember numerous occasions when I would catch Foma Fomich engrossed in a Paul de Kock novel, which he would hide when there were people around. A French window in the far wall of the study opened directly onto the courtyard.

  Everybody was waiting for us. Foma Fomich was sitting in a comfortable armchair in an ankle-length frock-coat, but without a tie. He spoke little, and was indeed lost in thought. When we entered the room, he raised his brows slightly and looked at me curiously. I bowed; he responded with a faint nod which was actually rather courteous. My grandmamma, seeing that Foma Fomich had adopted a cordial attitude towards me, smiled and nodded to me. The poor soul could hardly have believed that morning that her darling would receive the news of Tatyana Ivanovna’s escapade with such equanimity; consequently she was now in very good spirits, although earlier in the morning she had indeed had convulsions and swooning fits. Miss Perepelitsyna, having taken up her usual position behind her mistress’s chair, stood rubbing her bony hands while a vicious, sour grin warped the thin line of her tightly drawn lips. A pair of time-worn gentlewomen, hangers-on of the General’s Lady, sat close beside her without saying a single word. Also present was a nun, who had wandered into the house that morning from goodness knows where, and a neighbouring farmer’s wife, advanced in years and also with nothing to say for herself, who had called in after mass to pay her respects to the General’s Lady. Aunt Praskovya Ilyinichna had made herself inconspicuous somewhere in a distant corner of the room and was darting frightened glances at Foma Fomich and Mamma. Uncle sat in an armchair, beaming with joy. Ilyusha, in a red festive shirt and his hair beautifully curled, stood in front of him like a little cherub. To please his father, Sashenka and Nastenka had secretly taught him some lines for the occasion, to show what excellent progress he was making in his studies. Uncle was nearly in tears for joy: Foma’s unexpected mildness, the General’s Lady’s good spirits, Ilyusha’s name-day, the poem — everything had combined to put him into a state of euphoria, and he had triumphantly sent for me to come and join him as soon as possible in order to share in the all-round happiness and listen to the poem. Sashenka and Nastenka, who entered the room shortly after us, positioned themselves close to Ilyusha. Sashenka was full of laughter and joy like a little child. Seeing her, Nastenka also began to smile, although a minute earlier she had entered the room pale and dejected. She was the only one who had welcomed Tatyana Ivanovna on her return from her excursion and all this time had been sitting with her upstairs in her room. Cheeky little Ilyusha was also full of laughter as he watched his two instructresses. It seemed the three of them had prepared a hilarious joke and were bursting with impatience to play it on us … Oh yes, and I quite forgot about Bakhcheyev. He sat at a distance from everybody else, angry and red-faced, with not a word to say for himself as he puffed and snorted and blew his nose every few seconds, acting out a most miserable role in the family celebrations. Yezhevikin was fussing close at hand; in fact he was to be seen everywhere — kissing the hands of the General’s Lady and her lady-guests, whispering into Miss Perepelitsyna’s ear, hovering about Foma Fomich to attend to his needs. He too was evidently anxious to hear Ilyusha’s verses, and as soon as I appeared he rushed forward to greet me, bowing and scraping as a mark of respect and devotion. It did not look at all as if he had come to defend his daughter and take her away from Stepanchikovo for good.

  ‘Here he is!’ Uncle exclaimed joyfully as soon as he saw me. ‘Ilyusha has a poem ready, dear boy — who would have thought, what a surprise! You know, my boy, I’m quite astounded. I sent specially for you and asked for the reading to be held up until you came … Sit here beside me. We’re all going to listen to it. Foma Fomich, admit it, my friend, it was your idea, wasn’t it — to cheer me up in my old age? I swear it was!’

  One would have thought that everything was going well, seeing that Uncle had adopted such a tone in Foma Fomich’s room. But the trouble was that Uncle, as Mizinchikov had observed, was quite incapable of reading people’s faces. After one glance at Foma, I had to admit that Mizinchikov was right, and that it looked as if something was about to happen.

  ‘Don’t worry about me, Colonel,’ replied Foma Fomich feebly, in the voice of a man granting a reprieve to his enemy. ‘Of course, I commend the idea: it speaks of a certain sensitivity and gentility in your children. Poetry has its merits, even if only to improve enunciation. But my mind was far from poetry this morning, Yegor Ilyich: I was at prayer … as you know … Anyway, I’m willing to listen to poetry.’

  In the meantime I kissed and congratulated Ilyusha.

  ‘That’s right, Foma, I do beg your pardon! I quite forgot … though I’ve every faith in your friendship, Foma! Go on, kiss him again, Sergey! Look what a brave little lad he is! Well, come on, Ilyusha, do begin! What’s it about? Probably some kind of solemn ode, something from Lomonosov, I daresay!’

  And Uncle swelled with dignity. He could hardly keep still for impatience and joy.

  ‘No, Papa, it’s not Lomonosov,’ Sashenka said, fighting back her laughter. ‘But as you used to be a soldier and have fought the enemy, Ilyusha has learned a poem about war … “The Siege of Pamba”, Papa.’

  ‘“The Siege of Pamba”? Ah! I don’t remember … What’s Pamba, Seryozha, do you know? Something heroic, no doubt.’

  And Uncle again assumed a dignified air.

  ‘Begin, Ilyusha!’ Sashenka commanded.

  ‘Nine years now since Pedro Gomez …’

  Ilyusha began in a small, even-toned and distinct voice without pauses of any kind, in the manner of young children who have learnt their lines off by heart.

  ‘Nine years now since Pedro Gomez

  Did besiege the town of Pamba,

  Milk has been the only diet

  Of the army of Don Pedro.

  All nine thousand brave Castilians

  Never broke their solemn vow,

  Never touched a crust of bread,

  Never drank a drop but milk.’

  ‘What? What was that about milk?’ Uncle exclaimed, looking at me in astonishment.

  ‘Go on, Ilyusha!’ cried Sashenka.

  ‘Every day Don Pedro Gomez

  Weeps in fury at his weakness,

  Hides himself inside his cloak.

  Comes the tenth year of the siege;

  Now the wicked Moors in glee

  Celebrate their victory;

  And of all his mighty force

  Pedro has but nineteen left …’

  ‘That’s nonsense!’ Uncle exclaimed in great agitation. ‘It’s just not possible! Nineteen men out of the whole force, when there was a sizeable corps to start with! What is all this, my boy?’

  But at this moment Sashenka could restrain herself no longer, and burst into the most unbridled childish laughter; and although there was nothing much to laugh at, none of us could keep a straight face at the mere sight of her.

  ‘It’s meant to be a funny poem, Papa,’ she exclaimed, overjoyed at the success of her prank. ‘It’s supposed to be like that, the author wrote it to make everybody laugh, Papa.’

  ‘Ah! A funny one!’ Uncle exclaimed, his face suddenly lighting up., ‘Comic, that is! I was just going to say … Exactly, exactly, it’s all a joke. It is funny, extremely funny! To keep a whole army starving on milk — and all for a vow! Can’t see that he needed to do it really! Very witty though — don’t you agree, Foma? You see, Mamma, it’s one of those comic poems which poets sometimes write — isn’t that right, Sergey, they do, don’t they? Very funny indeed! Well, well, Ilyusha, so what next?’

  ‘Nineteen men survived the slaughter.

  These Don Pedro now assembled:

  Thus addressed them: “My nineteen!

  All our standards we’ll unfurl,

  Blow the trumpets, strike the drums;

  We’ll retreat whence we have come.

  Pamba, true, still stands: however,

  We can swear by all that’s holy

  We have all upheld our honour,

  Never have we broken once

  That most sacred vow we’ve taken:

  Nine long years we’ve nothing eaten,

  Not a morsel’s passed our lips:

  All we’ve done is drink our milk!’”

  ‘The blockhead! Why does he console himself with that?’ Uncle interrupted again. ‘Drinking milk for nine years! There’s nothing virtuous in that! He would have done better to give everybody a roasted ram to eat instead of starving them! Wonderful, excellent! I see it, now I see it: it’s a satire, or … what do they call it, an allegory or something? … And I daresay aimed at some foreign general,’ Uncle added,, raising his eyebrows and giving me a meaningful look. ‘Eh? What d’you think? I trust it’s an innocent, decent satire, which won’t offend anyone! Splendid! Splendid! Above all it must be decent! Well, Ilyusha, do continue! Oh, you pranksters, you pranksters!’ he added with a loving look at Sashenka and a stealthy glance at Nastenka, who was blushing and smiling.

  ‘Such a speech could not but bolster

  Warriors swaying in their saddles,

  And in voices weak and tired

  Nineteen warriors thus replied:

  “Sancto Jago Compostello,

  Glory be to you, Don Pedro,

  Mighty Lion of Castile!”

  But his chaplain, named Don Diego,

  Muttered thus through clenchèd teeth:

  “Had I led the army here,

  They’d have all had meat to eat,

  Washed down with strong Turin wine!”’

  ‘There you are! What did I say?’ Uncle exclaimed, utterly overjoyed. ‘One man in the whole army with a bit of sense at last, and he would have to be some chaplain! Who exactly was he, Sergey, a captain of theirs, or what?’

  ‘A monk, a holy man, Uncle.’

  ‘Oh, yes, yes! Chapel, chaplain, I know, I remember! I read about them in Radcliffe’s novels. They’ve got various orders, haven’t they? … Benedictines, I seem to remember … It is Benedictine, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, Uncle.’

  ‘Hm! … I thought so. Well, Ilyusha, what next? Excellent, splendid!’