‘Yes, I did hear about that, but I must admit …’

  ‘Must admit, must admit! The way he keeps on! What’s the use of admitting! You’d do better to ask me what forests I’ve trekked through. Take the Colonel’s mother, a worthy lady if ever there was one, and besides, the wife of a general — but completely crack-brained, if you ask me: she’s besotted with Foma Fomich and it’s thanks to her first and foremost that he’s been able to instal himself in the household. He’s so bewitched her with his learning that she’s no longer able to speak for herself, even though she still has the title of “Your Excellency” — imagine hopping into marriage with General Krakhotkin at fifty! As for Praskovya Ilyinichna, the Colonel’s sister, forty and still an old maid — she’s not even worth talking about. It’s oohs and ahs, clucking like an old hen all day long — I’m fed up with her — to hell with her! The fair sex, they tell me, and I’m expected to respect her just because of her sex! Oh, but I shouldn’t chatter; she’ll be your aunt. There’s only one sane person there and that’s the Colonel’s fifteen-year-old daughter, Aleksandra Yegorovna, a mere child but wiser than everybody else put together, if you ask me; hasn’t got a scrap of respect for Foma — a joy to behold. What a darling creature! And who is he to be respected? Foma used to play the buffoon for the old General, he used to imitate different animals to amuse His Excellency! But Ivan the clown now wears a crown. Your uncle has put the scoundrel on a pedestal, treats him like his own father, grovels at his feet — when he’s a hanger-on in the Colonel’s household! Blast him!’

  ‘Being poor is hardly a crime … and … I must admit … allow me to ask, is he clever or handsome?’

  ‘Foma? Handsome?’ Bakhcheyev replied with an extraordinary tremor of malice in his voice. (My questions for some reason seemed to irritate him and he was beginning to eye me with some misgiving.) ‘Handsome! Listen to him: he thinks he’s found a beauty! He’s a monster, if you really want the truth, sir. All right if he had some wit, if only the rascal had a scrap of wit — well, perhaps then I’d grin and bear it for the sake of his wit, but not a bit of it! He’s given them a potion and drugged the lot, the charlatan! Damnation! I’ve lost my voice! I’ll spit and say no more. You’ve quite put me out of sorts with all your talk, kind sir! Hey, you! Is it ready or not?’

  ‘Blackie still needs re-shoeing,’ Grigory replied morosely.

  ‘Blackie indeed! I’ll show you Blackie! … Yes, my good friend, I could tell you things that would make your mouth hang open, and you’d stay with your mouth hanging open till the Second Coming. You see, there was a time when I respected him. What do you think? I confess, I openly confess: I was a fool — there’s no getting away from it! The scoundrel took me in. A know-all! A universal expert who’d mastered all the sciences! He gave me drops: you see, I’m sick, I’ve got fluids, my friend. You mightn’t believe it, but I have. So he started feeding me these drops — they nearly knocked me out cold. No, don’t say a word, just listen to me. You’ll be there soon enough to see it all for yourself. He’ll have the Colonel shed tears of blood yet; yes, the Colonel will shed tears of blood, but it’ll be too late. All the neighbours are already avoiding them because of Foma — curse him. Anybody who comes to the house gets abused. Who am I to complain, though — even rank isn’t spared! Whoever comes gets treated to a sermon; he’s sold on morals now, the scoundrel. “I’m the wisest of the wise,” he says, “everybody listen to me. I’m a learned man!” So what if you have learning, damn it! Must you persecute everyone who hasn’t, just because you have learning? … And you should hear that learned tongue of his at work, bla-bla-bla! bla-bla-bla! Such a wagging tongue, I tell you, that if you cut it out and threw it on a dunghill, it’d still go on wagging till a crow pecked it all up. The conceit of the man! He’s as puffed-up as a mouse in a granary! Just too big for his boots. What’s the use? He’s now taken it into his head to teach the servants French! Don’t believe me, if you don’t want to! It’s going to do him good, he reckons, that uncouth lout of a servant! Bah! It’s a scandal — it is! What does a yokel want to know French for, I ask you? What do the likes of us want to know French for, come to that? To mince mazurkas with the ladies, prance about with other people’s wives? Debauchery, that’s all it is. To my mind, drink a carafe of vodka and you’ll be talking all the languages under the sun. That’s what I think of your French! You’re a French-speaker, too, I wouldn’t be surprised: “La-la-la! la-la-la, Tom the cat has got it pat!”’ Bakhcheyev surveyed me disdainfully. ‘You’re a learned one too, my friend, eh? Been delving in the sciences, haven’t you?’

  ‘Well, yes, up to a point …’

  ‘Master of all manner of studies, I trow?’

  ‘Yes, I mean, no … I’m more of an observer at the moment. I’ve been in St Petersburg all the while and I’m now off to my uncle’s …’

  ‘And what’s the attraction at your uncle’s? You ought to have stayed at home, wherever that may be! No, my good friend, you can take it from me, none of your learning will help you there, nor your uncle himself; you’re as good as trapped! Why, I lost weight overnight there. You don’t believe I did? Yes, I can see you don’t believe me. Well, please yourself.’

  ‘No, sir, really, I do believe you. But I still can’t understand …’ I replied, growing more and more confused.

  ‘There we go again: I do believe you, I don’t believe you. You’re all glad to strut about spouting science. Any excuse is good enough to cut a dash! Can’t stand all that learned stuff myself; it sticks here in my gullet! I’ve met your Petersburg types before — a useless crowd! Godless freemasons, all of them: shying away from a glass of vodka as if it would bite. Bah! You’ve made me angry, my friend, and I don’t want to talk to you. I’m not obliged to be your storyteller, you know, and anyway, my tongue’s worn out. You can’t go on ranting at the whole world, my good man, and besides, it’s a sin … But let me just tell you that your uncle’s valet, Vidoplyasov, has been turned into a proper idiot by your man of science. He’s crazy now, is Vidoplyasov, thanks to Foma Fomich …’

  ‘If I had my way, I’d take that Vidoplyasov,’ broke in Grigory, who had been listening to the conversation in respectful silence, ‘if ever he came my way, I’d give that Vidoplyasov such a hiding, I’d soon knock all that German nonsense out of him. I’d give him such a walloping he wouldn’t know if he was coming or going.’

  ‘Silence!’ his master shouted. ‘Hold your tongue; speak when you’re spoken to!’

  ‘Vidoplyasov,’ I said, utterly confused and hardly able to think of what to say next. ‘Vidoplyasov … Don’t you think it’s a strange name?’

  ‘What’s so strange about it? You’re at it too, you man of learning!’

  My patience snapped.

  ‘I beg your pardon,’ I said. ‘Why are you angry with me? What have I done? I don’t mind telling you, I’ve been standing here listening to you for the last half-hour and I don’t begin to know what you’re talking about …’

  ‘No need to take offence, my friend,’ the fat man replied, ‘no need at all! I said it for your own good. You shouldn’t take it to heart that I’m such a loudmouth and shouted at Grigory just now. He’s a confounded wretch, is my Grishka, but I love him just the same, the scoundrel. I’m altogether too soft, that’s my trouble, but it’s all Foma’s fault, you know. He’ll be the end of me, I swear he will. Two solid hours I’ve had to roast here on his account. I thought of dropping in on the archdeacon while these fools get on with the job. He’s an excellent man, our deacon. But Foma Fomich has got me into such a state, I don’t want to face the archdeacon! I’m fed up! There isn’t even a place to have a drink around here. Everybody’s a scoundrel I say, one and all! … Now if he had some sort of unusual rank,’ Bakhcheyev continued, again referring to Foma Fomich, whom he obviously could not get off his mind, ‘well, I’d grin and bear it; but he hasn’t got any sort of rank, I know he hasn’t. Years back, in forty something or other, he was supposed to have suffered for a cause, and just for that we’re now supposed to grovel at his feet! Hell! The slightest excuse and he’s on his feet yelling: “I’m being insulted and taken advantage of because I’m poor and helpless and no one respects me!” Don’t anyone dare sit down to a meal without Foma Fomich, even if he deliberately refuses to appear: “I’ve been insulted — I’m a poor defenceless castaway, a crust of bread is all I need.” The moment everybody’s settled down, in he comes and up he scrapes his tune: “Why didn’t you wait for me? Is this all you think of me?” What a performance! I put up with it for a long time, my friend. He thought I’d get up on my hind legs before him like an obedient doggie! He had another think coming! You might have your hand on the bridle, my friend, but I’m already in the cart. Look, Yegor Ilyich and I served in the same regiment. I resigned as a cadet, but he stayed on until he retired to his estate last year with the rank of Colonel. I said to him: “You’ll come to no good giving in to Foma! You’ll rue the day!” “No,” he says to me, “he’s an excellent fellow” — (Foma — I ask you!) — “he’s my friend, he’s teaching me correct behaviour.” Well, how can you go against that! If he’s teaching correct behaviour, that’s the end. And do you know what all the fuss was about today? Tomorrow is St Ilya’s Day (Mr Bakhcheyev made the sign of the cross) and it’s your little cousin’s name-day. So I thought I’d spend the day with them and stay for dinner. Had a toy specially ordered from town: a clockwork German kissing his lady’s hand and she wiping a tear with a handkerchief — a lovely little thing! (But all that’s ruined morgen-frûh! Look, it’s lying with a broken nose in the back of my carriage. I’m taking it back.) Yegor Ilyich himself wasn’t against having a bit of a celebration on a day like that, but Foma stopped it: “Why are you fussing with Ilyusha? Am I to be forgotten now?” Now what do you make of that? Grudging even an eight-year-old his name-day celebration. “I won’t have it,” he said. “It’s my name-day too today!” And St Ilya’s Day will become St Foma’s, you can be sure of it. “No,” he says, “it’s my name-day as well.” I was as patient as I could be. So what happens? They’re walking about on tiptoe whispering what to do next, wondering whether to congratulate Foma on St Ilya’s Day or not. If they don’t, he might be offended; if they do, he might think they’re trying to be funny. Hell and Damnation! We sat down to dinner … Look here, my friend, are you listening to me or not?’

  ‘Yes, yes, I am; I’m really fascinated, because I’ve learned from you … and I must admit …’

  ‘“Fascinated!” I know all about your “fascinated” … You’re not by any chance trying to be funny, are you?’

  ‘Funny, not at all! On the contrary. Besides … you have such a way of putting things that I wish I could write down all you say.’

  ‘What d’you mean, “write down”?’ Mr Bakhcheyev asked in some alarm, eyeing me suspiciously.’

  ‘Well, I didn’t exactly mean “write down” … just in a manner of speaking.’

  ‘You’re not trying to flatter me?’

  ‘What do you mean, “flatter”?’ I asked, taken aback.

  ‘Simple. You flatter me; I tell you everything like a fool and then you go and write about me in some paper.’

  I hastened to reassure Mr Bakhcheyev that I wasn’t that sort, but he still continued to eye me with suspicion.

  ‘Well, that’s your story! But I don’t know you! You might go one better. Foma threatened to write to the press about me too.’

  ‘May I ask,’ I interrupted him, to change the subject, ‘is it true that my uncle wants to get married?’

  ‘So what if he does? There’s nothing wrong in that. Marry, if you’ve nothing better to do. That’s only half the trouble, though …’ Mr Bakhcheyev looked thoughtful. ‘Hm! It’s very difficult for me to explain. All sorts of womenfolk have assembled there like bees round a honey-pot and you can’t tell which one is the marrying type. Now let me be frank with you, my good friend: I don’t like women! They’re said to be human, but in fact there’s nothing but shame in them, they can bring damnation upon your soul. But that your uncle is in love like a Siberian cat, I’ve no doubt at all. Still, I’ll say no more about it: you’ll see it all for yourself. He shouldn’t keep putting things off, though. If you want to get married, go ahead I say; but he’s afraid to tell Foma; afraid to tell the old lady, who’ll create merry hell, seeing as she is all on Foma’s side: “What! A wife in the house! Foma will be mortified!” Mortified, indeed! He’d be picked up by the scruff of his neck and slung out of the house! He wouldn’t last five minutes with her! If she wasn’t a fool, she’d manage it in some other way, she’d give him such a to-do that he wouldn’t find anywhere to put himself. That’s why he’s now plotting with Mamma to palm some crackpot off on your uncle … Now don’t interrupt me, my friend! I was just coming to the main part of my story and you interrupted me! I’m older than you; it won’t do to interrupt your elders …’

  I apologized.

  ‘No need for apologies. As you’re a man of learning, I was going to let you be the judge of how he insulted me today. Now just think about it, if you’re a fair-minded man. We sat down to dinner, and I could see he’d have gladly eaten me alive! Right from the start he sat there absolutely fuming. He’d have drowned me in a spoonful of water! The viper! The man is so stuffed full of vanity it’s bursting out of him! He decided to pick on me and teach me morals and manners too, if you please. Why am I so fat, he asks? Why fat and not thin, the fellow wants to know. Now, I ask you, what sort of question is that? Is there anything clever in it? I gave him a sensible answer: “That’s the way God has arranged it, dear Foma: one man is fat, another thin; and it’s not for us mortals to question Divine Providence.” Reasonable — don’t you agree? “Oh, no!” he says, “You own five hundred serfs, they wait on you hand and foot and what good are you to your country? You ought to work; instead, all you do is sit at home and tootle on your harmonium?” As it happens, that is something I do like to indulge myself in a little, to cheer myself up occasionally. Again I gave him a sensible answer: “And what kind of work do you think would suit me, Foma? Can you think of a uniform that would accommodate this fat body of mine? Say I did squeeze myself into one, and then sneezed — all the buttons would go pop, maybe in front of high officials; Good God, they might think I was being deliberately offensive — what then?” Now tell me, my friend, is there anything funny in what I said? You should have seen him giggling and tittering, rolling about with laughter no end at my expense … I say there’s not a scrap of decency in him; why, he even used the French dialect on me: “Cochon,” he says. Well, that’s one word I do understand. So I thought: You damned scholar — you think I’m your booby? I could take so much and no more. I rose from the table and spoke out to him, in front of all the good people there: “I confess I have thoroughly mistaken you, gracious Foma: I almost thought you were a man of breeding; but it turns out you’re a swine like the rest of us,” and I left the room just as the pudding was being served. To hell with your pudding!’

  ‘Excuse me,’ I said, after Mr Bakhcheyev had come to the end of his story, ‘Of course, I thoroughly agree with all you say. However, I’m still not at all clear about the facts … You see, I now have certain ideas of my own about all this.’

  ‘What ideas, may I ask?’ Mr Bakhcheyev inquired suspiciously.

  ‘You see,’ I began, a little confused, ‘it may not be altogether relevant, but you might as well know. The way I look at it, it’s possible we are both wrong about Foma Fomich; maybe beneath it all lies an exceptional nature, perhaps even a highly gifted one — who knows? He may be bitter and broken by his sufferings, as it were, wreaking his vengeance on humanity. I hear he used to be something of a jester; perhaps he was humiliated, demoralized, completely undone by that? You see, a man of quality … perception … forced to play the jester! Hence his distrust of mankind and … and, perhaps, if he were to be reconciled with humanity … that is to say, with people, maybe he would turn out to have a remarkable nature … a unique one in fact and … and surely there must be something in this man? After all, there must be a reason why everyone bows down before him!’

  In short, I realized I had said the wrong thing entirely. I could have been excused on account of my youth, but Mr Bakhcheyev was implacable. He looked long and hard into my eyes and suddenly went as red as a turkey-cock.

  ‘What, Foma, a remarkable person?’ he asked abruptly.

  ‘Please, I scarcely believe a word of what I just said myself. I was only guessing …’

  ‘My dear sir, allow me to ask you one thing out of curiosity: have you ever studied philosophy?’

  ‘In what sense?’ I asked, nonplussed.

  ‘Forget about sense; you just give me a straight answer and leave sense out of it: have you studied philosophy or not?’

  ‘I must admit, I do intend to, but …’

  ‘I thought as much!’ Mr Bakhcheyev exclaimed, giving full vent to his indignation. ‘Even before you opened your mouth I knew you were a philosopher! Morgen-frûh! You can’t fool me! I can smell a philosopher a mile off! Go and kiss your precious Foma Fomich! A remarkable person indeed! Bah! To hell with the lot of you! I almost took you for a reasonable person, but it turns out … Come on!’ he called out to his coachman, who was already mounting the newly repaired calash. ‘Home!’

  Somehow I managed to placate him. He relented at last; but it was a good while before anger gave way to good spirits. Meanwhile, he had clambered into the calash assisted by Grigory and Arkhip, that same elderly workman who had previously admonished Vasily.