‘This Don Pedro overheard;

  Laughing heartily, he spake:

  “I admire him for his wit!

  Give the holy man a ram!”’

  ‘Imagine laughing at a time like that! What a fool! He’s seen the funny side of it at last! A ram, my word! So they had rams all along; why didn’t he eat one himself? Well, Ilyusha, let’s have the rest! Excellent, splendid! Devastatingly witty!’

  ‘That’s the end, Papa!’

  ‘Ah! The end! But of course, what else was there to do indeed — am I right, Sergey? Well done, Ilyusha! Simply marvellous! Come and give me a kiss, my precious boy! My sweet little boy! And whose idea was it: was it yours, Sashenka?’

  ‘No, it was Nastenka’s!’ We came across the poem the other day. She read it out and thought: “How funny! Ilyusha’s name-day is coming up: let’s get him to learn it off by heart and recite it. It’ll be such fun!”’

  ‘So it was Nastenka? Well, I’m most grateful, most grateful,’ Uncle mumbled and suddenly blushed like a child. ‘Give me another kiss, Ilyusha! You too, Sashenka, my naughty little pet,’ he said, giving Sashenka a hug and looking tenderly into her eyes.

  ‘There now, Sashenka, it will be your name-day soon too,’ he added, not knowing what to say for joy.

  I turned to Nastenka and asked her who had written the poem.

  ‘Ah yes! Who wrote it?’ Uncle repeated with a start. ‘Must be a very clever poet — don’t you agree, Foma?’

  ‘Hm!’ grunted Foma Fomich.

  All through the reading of the poem, a caustic, mocking smile had never left his lips.

  ‘I’ve forgotten,’ Nastenka replied, casting a meek glance at Foma Fomich.

  ‘Mr Kuzma Prutkov wrote it, Papa. It was printed in The Contemporary!’ Sashenka burst out.

  ‘Kuzma Prutkov! don’t know him,’ Uncle said. ‘Pushkin, that’s another matter! … Still, it seems he was a worthy poet — is that right, Sergey? And what’s more, a thorough gentleman — that’s plain as the sun at noonday! Might even have made an officer … Well done! Anyway, it’s a fine journal, this Contemporary! Must definitely take out a subscription if they have poets like that contributing … I like poets! They’re a good crowd! The way they put everything into verse! Sergey, do you remember the man of letters I met at your place in Petersburg? The one with the funny nose … really! … What did you say, Foma?’

  Foma Fomich, who was getting more and more restless, suddenly began to giggle.

  ‘No, I only … it’s nothing really …’ he said, as though barely able to contain his laughter. ‘Carry on, Yegor Ilyich, carry on! I’ll have my say later … You see even Stepan Alekseyich is enjoying your story of encounters with Petersburg men of letters …’

  Mr Bakhcheyev, who was sitting all by himself lost in thought, suddenly raised his head, went red in the face and turned aggressively in his chair.

  ‘Don’t you start getting at me, Foma Fomich! Just leave me alone!’ he said, darting him a fierce look with his small, bloodshot eyes. ‘I couldn’t care less about your literature! Good health is all I pray for!’ he mumbled under his breath. ‘As for all your penpushers … confound them … a bunch of Voltaireans, that’s all they are!’

  ‘Voltairean penpushers!’ Yezhevikin spoke out, suddenly emerging on Mr Bakhcheyev’s side. ‘You’re so very right, Stepan Alekseyich, my good sir. That’s just what Valentin Ignatych too was saying the other day. Even I’ve been accused of being a Voltairean — honest to God; though as everyone knows, I haven’t written a great deal so far … With some people, if the milk goes off in the jug, Mr Voltaire’s done it! That’s a fact!’

  ‘Well, no!’ Uncle remarked weightily. ‘I think you’re mistaken. Voltaire was a witty writer; he ridiculed prejudices; but he never was a Voltairean himself! His enemies are responsible for spreading that slander about him. Why should he get blamed for everything, poor man? …’

  Foma Fomich again sniggered maliciously. Uncle looked at him apprehensively, unable to conceal his discomfiture.

  ‘I was only talking about journals, Foma,’ Uncle said, visibly embarrassed and attempting to redeem himself somehow. ‘You were perfectly right, Foma, to encourage us the other day to take out subscriptions. I feel we must too! … Hm! … really, it’s a fact, they’re spreading enlightenment and so on! How can you call yourself a son of your country when you haven’t taken out a subscription? Isn’t that right, Sergey? Hm! … Yes! … The Contemporary for example … But you know, Sergey, the best journal of them all for science, if you ask me, is that thick one … now what was it called again? With the yellow cover …’

  ‘Country Notes, Papa.’

  ‘Ah yes, Country Notes, and a splendid title too, Sergey — isn’t that right? Can’t you picture the whole country sitting busily taking down notes? … A brilliant idea! A most useful journal — and so thick! I’d like to see you publish an omnibus like that! The things you find in it would make your eyes pop out … Came home the other day and there was a copy; I couldn’t resist it, opened it and read three pages straight off. It made me simply gasp, it goes into everything. Take a broom, a shovel, a ladle, an oven-fork. To the likes of me a broom is a broom, an oven-fork is an oven-fork. But, just hold on a moment, my boy! An oven-fork, looked at scientifically, is an emblem or a symbol of something or other; don’t quite remember what of, but there you are, you see! They’ve got to the bottom of everything!’

  I have no idea what Foma Fomich was planning to do after this latest flight of Uncle’s, for at this moment Gavrila appeared on the doorstep and remained standing with his head bowed.

  Foma Fomich cast him a meaningful glance.

  ‘Ready, Gavrila?’ he inquired in a low but firm voice.

  ‘Yes,’ Gavrila replied sadly, with a sigh.

  ‘And have you put my bundle in the cart?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well then, I’m ready!’ said Foma Fomich, rising slowly from his chair. Uncle was looking at him in astonishment. The General’s Lady had leapt to her feet and was staring about her wild-eyed.

  ‘By your leave, Colonel,’ Foma Fomich began with dignity, ‘I must now ask you to postpone your fascinating discussion on literary oven-forks; you may continue it in my absence. I am now leaving you for good, and I should like to say a few last words to you …’

  Astonishment bordering on terror seized the whole company.

  ‘Foma! Foma! What’s the matter? Where will you go?’ Uncle exclaimed at last.

  ‘I intend to leave your house, Colonel,’ said Foma Fomich in a voice drained of all emotion. ‘I’ve decided to go wherever fate and fortune take me, and I have engaged, at my own expense, a simple peasant cart for my journey. My luggage is loaded; it isn’t much: a few of my favourite books, two changes of underwear — that’s the lot! I’m poor, Yegor Ilyich, but never in my life would I consider taking your gold, the gold I turned down yesterday! …’

  ‘For goodness’ sake, Foma! What is all this?’ Uncle cried, white as a sheet.

  The General’s Lady uttered a shrill cry and extended her hands towards Foma with a look of utter desperation on her face. Miss Perepelitsyna rushed forward to support her. The lady companions sat petrified with terror. Mr Bakhcheyev slowly heaved himself off his chair.

  ‘Well, there we go again!’ Mizinchikov whispered at my side.

  At this moment there was the sound of distant thunder; a storm was approaching.

  4

  Expulsion

  ‘Ibelieve, colonel, you asked: “What is all this?”’ said Foma Fomich solemnly, delighting in the general embarrassment. ‘Your question astonishes me! Pray explain, how is it that you are still capable of looking me straight in the eye! Do explain to me this final psychological mystery of human shamelessness so that I can depart at least enriched by a new insight into the depravity of the human kind.’

  But Uncle was in no state to make a reply: his eyes ready to pop out and mouth hanging wide open, he stared at Foma Fomich, crushed and fearful.

  ‘O Lord! Such passions!’ Perepelitsyna uttered with a groan.

  ‘Do you understand, Colonel,’ continued Foma Fomich, ‘that you must now release me without any fuss or further questioning. In your house even a man of my age and intellectual level cannot help being concerned for the purity of his morals. Believe me that any further probing on the subject will only lead to your total disgrace.’

  ‘Foma! Foma! …’ Uncle cried, and beads of cold sweat appeared on his forehead.

  ‘And therefore allow me without further ado to pronounce a few farewell words of counsel, my very last in your house, Yegor Ilyich. The mischief has been done and may not be undone! I trust you understand what I am referring to. On my bended knees I beg you: restrain your passions if you’ve still a spark of moral decency left in you! Dampen the fire, lest the poisonous fumes of corruption engulf the whole edifice!’

  ‘Foma! I assure you, you’re mistaken!’ Uncle exclaimed, gradually beginning to regain his composure and fearful of the turn that the conversation might take.

  ‘Quell your passions,’ continued Foma Fomich in the same solemn tones, as if he had not even heard Uncle’s exclamations, ‘vanquish yourself. If you wish to vanquish the world — first vanquish your own self! That is my golden rule. You’re a landowner; you should sparkle like a diamond on your estates, but look what an example of gross licentiousness you set your subordinates! I spent nights in anguished prayer seeking your ultimate happiness, but I found it not, for happiness resides in virtue …’

  ‘But this is impossible, Foma,’ Uncle again interrupted him, ‘you don’t understand, you’re off about the wrong thing altogether …’

  ‘And so remember that you are a landowner,’ continued Foma Fomich, again ignoring Uncle’s exclamations. ‘Do not imagine that ease and lust are the privileges of the landed gentry. Perish the thought! It’s not ease that’s needed, but zeal towards God, Tsar and country! The landowner must toil, toil and toil again, like the meanest of his peasants!’

  ‘What! Must I go and plough the fields for the labourers, is that what you mean?’ Bakhcheyev grumbled. ‘I’m a landowner too, damn it …’

  ‘And now you of the household staff,’ Foma Fomich continued, addressing himself to Gavrila and Falaley, who had appeared in the doorway. ‘Love your masters and be obedient to their will, be humble and meek. Your masters’ love will be your ample reward. And you, Colonel, practise justice and compassion towards your servants. Behold, they are of the human kind — moulded in the image of God, children, so to speak, entrusted to your care by the Tsar and the land that he rules. Heavy lies the burden of duty upon you, but your reward will be great.’

  ‘Foma Fomich, my darling! What are you thinking of?’ the General’s Lady cried out in despair, on the point of swooning in terror.

  ‘Well, I think that will be all,’ concluded Foma, paying no attention even to the General’s Lady. ‘And now to matters of detail; trivial, I grant you, but necessary. Yegor Ilyich! you still haven’t cut the grass on that patch of wasteland in Khorinskaya. Don’t leave it too late: have it cut and have it cut quickly. Such is my advice …’

  ‘But, Foma …’

  ‘I know you wanted to clear that strip of woodland in Zyryanovsk; leave the trees alone — that is my second piece of advice. Forests must be preserved: for they retain moisture on the earth’s surface … What a pity you put in your spring crops so late; really, it is surprising how late you sowed your spring crops! …’

  ‘But, Foma …’

  ‘Well, that will have to do! I could have said more, but this is not the time! I’ll forward my instructions to you in writing, in a special notebook. Well, farewell, farewell all of you. God be with you and may the Lord’s blessing be upon you all! Let me bless you too, my child,’ he added, addressing himself to Ilyusha, ‘and may God protect you from the noxious poison of your future passions! I bless you too, Falaley; have nothing to do with the komarinsky! … And you, and all of you … remember Foma … Well, come along, Gavrila! Help me into the cart, kind old man that you are.’

  And Foma Fomich made for the door. The General’s Lady let out a shriek and rushed after him.

  ‘No, Foma! I shan’t let you leave like that!’ Uncle exclaimed, as he too caught up with him and grabbed him by the arm.

  ‘So you want to resort to force, do you?’

  ‘Yes, Foma … force!’ Uncle replied, trembling with agitation. ‘You have said too much and you must explain yourself! You have misunderstood my letter, Foma! …’

  ‘Your letter!’ shrieked Foma Fomich in sudden animation, as if he had been waiting precisely for this opportunity to vent his spleen. ‘Your letter! Here is your letter! Here it is! I’m ripping this letter to pieces, I spit upon this letter! I trample your letter underfoot in performance of man’s most sacred duty! That’s what I’m doing if you mean to use force to extract an explanation from me! Here! Here! Here! …’

  And scraps of paper flew about the room.

  ‘I repeat, Foma, you have misunderstood me!’ Uncle shouted, growing whiter and whiter. ‘I’m offering her my hand, Foma, I’m seeking my happiness …’

  ‘Your hand! First you seduce this girl, and now you think you can fool me with your offer of marriage! It so happens I saw you two last night in the garden, under the bushes!’

  The General’s Lady uttered a cry and collapsed swooning into a chair. A terrible commotion ensued. Poor Nastenka sat drained and utterly lifeless. Sashenka, terrified, had flung her arms around Ilyusha and was trembling as if in a fever.

  ‘Foma!’ Uncle yelled beside himself. ‘If you give away this secret, you’ll be guilty of the meanest trick on earth!’

  ‘I shall give away this secret,’ screeched Foma Fomich, ‘and it will be the noblest deed that ever was! The Good Lord Himself has sent me to expose the world in its iniquity! I’m ready to proclaim your sordid misdeed from the thatched rooftop of a peasant’s hut for the benefit of every landowner who lives here and everyone who passes through here! … Yes, you should all know, all of you, that last night I caught him and this girl, who affects the most innocent airs, in the garden under a bush!’

  ‘Oh, the disgrace of it!’ Miss Perepelitsyna squealed.

  ‘Foma! I’m warning you!’ Uncle shouted, his fists clenched and eyes flashing.

  ‘… And he,’ Foma Fomich continued to screech, ‘terrified that I saw him, has dared to approach me with a lying letter, expecting me, despite my honesty and rectitude, to condone him in his crime — yes, crime! … because you’ve turned a pure and innocent girl into a …’

  ‘One more insulting word against her, and — I’ll kill you, Foma, I swear it …’

  ‘I will say it, because you’ve managed to turn a pure and innocent girl into a thoroughly depraved one!’

  No sooner had Foma Fomich uttered these last words than Uncle grabbed him by his shoulders, turned him round like a wisp of straw, and hurled him violently through the French window into the courtyard. The blow was so violent that the doors, standing slightly ajar, flew wide open and Foma Fomich rolled head over heels down the seven stone steps and ended up in the yard flat on his face. Bits of shattered glass cascaded noisily down the steps.

  ‘Gavrila, pick him up!’ Uncle called out, white as a sheet, ‘put him in the cart and give him two minutes to clear out of Stepanchikovo!’

  Such a turn of events was the last thing that Foma Fomich had expected.

  I can hardly attempt to describe what followed during the first few minutes after this event. The General’s Lady’s ear-splitting scream as she collapsed in her chair; Miss Perepelitsyna’s stupor in the face of such an unprecedented action on the part of the hitherto docile Uncle; the oohs and ahs of the lady companions; Nastenka’s near-fainting terror as her father hovered around her; Sashenka’s mortal alarm; Uncle’s frantic pacing to and fro as he waited for his mother to regain her senses; and, finally, the lusty wailing of Falaley, lamenting his master’s misfortune — all this added up to a spectacle beyond my powers of description. I should add that at this precise moment a violent storm broke out; there were frequent claps of thunder and soon the window-panes resounded to the patter of heavy raindrops.

  ‘What a party!’ Mr Bakhcheyev mumbled, hanging his head and flinging out his arms.

  ‘It’s a bad business!’ I whispered to him, also in a state of shock. ‘But at least Foma has been got rid of for good.’

  ‘Mamma! Are you all right? Are you better? Will you hear me out at last?’ Uncle asked, halting in his pacing in front of the old woman’s chair.

  She raised her head, folded her hands and regarded her son with pleading eyes — never before had she seen him in such a rage.

  ‘Mamma!’ he continued, ‘that was the last straw, you heard yourself. It wasn’t how I meant to broach the subject, but the hour had struck and there was no delaying! You heard the slander, now you’ve got to listen to my side of the story. Mamma, I love this girl — she’s the noblest and most exalted creature in the world; I’ve loved her from the start and I shall always love her. She’ll bring happiness to my children and will prove to be a faithful daughter to you, and now therefore, in your presence and witnessed by my friends and relatives, at her feet I solemnly plead to her to do me the untold honour of becoming my wife!’

  Nastenka shook all over, and blushing crimson, jumped to her feet with a start. For a while the General’s Lady regarded her son as though she had no idea what he was talking about, then she suddenly let out a piercing cry and flung herself down on her knees in front of him.

  ‘Yegor, darling, bring back my Foma Fomich!’ she cried. ‘Bring him back at once! or I’ll die before the day is out without him!’

  Uncle was thunderstruck at the sight of his aged mother, always so domineering and capricious, kneeling at his feet. A pained expression flitted across his face; then, pulling himself together, he hastened to pick her up and seat her back in her chair.

  ‘Bring back my Foma Fomich, Yegor my dear!’ the old woman wailed on, ‘please let me have my darling back! I can’t live without him!’