remember, too, we went on a pilgrimage to the monastery just before, and he wouldn’t let anyone sit in peace in the carriage? He kept crying out that the cushion was crushing his side, and pinching us; he pinched auntie twice in his ill humour. T am fond of camellias/ he said, ‘for I have the taste of the most refined society, and you grudge picking me any from the conservatory.’ And all day long he sulked and grizzled and would not talk to us… .”
I fancy that if a bomb had fallen in the middle of the room it would not have astounded and alarmed them all as much as this open mutiny — and of whom? — of a little girl who was not even permitted to speak aloud in her grandmother’s presence. Madame fa Generale, dumb with amazement and fury, rose from her seat, stood erect and stared at her insolent grandchild, unable to believe her eyes. My uncle was paralysed with horror.
“She is allowed to do just as she likes, she wants to be the death of her grandmother!” cried Miss Perepelitsyn.
“Sasha, Sasha, think what you are saying! What’s the matter with you, Sasha?” cried my uncle, rushing from one to the other, from his mother to Sashenka to stop her.
“I won’t hold my tongue, papa!” cried Sashenka, leaping up from her chair with flashing eyes and stamping with her feet. “I won’t hold my tongue! We have all suffered too long from Foma Fomitch, from your nasty, horrid Foma Fomitch! Foma Fomitch will be the ruin of us all, for people keep on telling him that he is so clever, generous, noble, learned, a mix-up of all the virtues, a sort of potpourri, and like an idiot Foma Fomitch believes it all. So many nice things are offered to him that anyone else would be ashamed; but Foma Fomitch gobbles up all that is put before him and asks for more. You’ll see, he will be the ruin of us all, and it’s all papa’s fault! Horrid, horrid Foma Fomitch! I speak straight out, I am not afraid of anyone! He is stupid, ill-tempered, dirty, ungentlemanly, cruel-hearted, a bully, a mischief-maker, a liar… . Oh, I’d turn him out of the house this minute, I would, but papa adores him, papa is crazy over him!”
“Oh!” shrieked her grandmother, and she fell in a swoon on the sofa.
“Agafya Timofyevna, my angel,” cried Anfisa Petrovna, “take my smelling-salts! Water, make haste, water!”
“Water, water!” shouted my uncle. “Mamma, mamma, calm yourself! I beg you on my knees to calm yourself! …”
“You ought to be kept on bread and water and shut up in a dark room … you’re a murderess!” Miss Perepelitsyn, shaking with spite, hissed at Sashenka.
“I will be kept on bread and water, I am not afraid of anything!” cried Sashenka, moved to frenzy in her turn. “I will defend papa because he can’t defend himself. Who is he, who is your Foma Fomitch compared with papa? He eats papa’s bread and insults papa, the ungrateful creature. I would tear him to pieces, your Foma Fomitch! I’d challenge him to a duel and shoot him on the spot with two pistols! …”
“Sasha, Sasha,” cried my uncle in despair. “Another word and I am ruined, hopelessly ruined.”
“Papa,” cried Sashenka, flinging herself headlong at her father, dissolving into tears and hugging him in her arms, “papa, how can you ruin yourself like this, you so kind, and good, and merry and clever? How can you give in to that horrid ungrateful man, be his plaything and let him turn you into ridicule? Papa, my precious papa! …”
She burst into sobs, covered her face with her hands and ran out of the room.
A fearful hubbub followed. Madame la Générale lay in a swoon. My uncle was kneeling beside her kissing her hands. Miss Perepelitsyn was wriggling about them and casting spiteful but triumphant glances at us. Anfisa Petrovna was moistening the old lady’s temples and applying her smelling-salts. Praskovya Ilyinitchna was shedding tears and trembling, Yezhevikin was looking for a corner to seek refuge in, while the governess stood pale and completely overwhelmed with terror. Mizintchikov was the only one who remained unchanged. He got up, went to the window and began looking out of it, resolutely declining to pay attention to the scene around him.
All at once Madame la Générale sat up, drew herself up and scanned me with a menacing eye.
“Go away!” she shouted, stamping her foot at me.
I must confess that this I had not in the least expected.
“Go away! Go out of the house! What has he come for? Don’t let me see a trace of him!”
“Mamma, mamma, what do you mean? Why, this is Seryozha,” my uncle muttered, shaking all over with terror. “Why, he has come to pay us a visit, mamma.”
“What Seryozha? Nonsense. I won’t hear a word. Go away! It’s Korovkin. I am convinced it is Korovkin. My presentiments never deceive me. He has come to turn Foma Fomitch out; he has been sent for with that very object. I have a presentiment in my heart. … Go away, you scoundrel!”
“Uncle, if this is how it is,” I said, spluttering with honest indignation, “then excuse me, I’ll …” And I reached after my hat.
“Sergey, Sergey, what are you about? … Well, this really is… . Mamma, this is Seryozha! … Sergey, upon my word!” he cried, racing after me and trying to take away my hat. “You are my visitor; you’ll stay, I wish it! She doesn’t mean it,” he went on in a whisper; “she only goes on like this when she is angry… . You only keep out of her sight just at first … keep out of the way and it will all pass over. She will forgive you, I assure you! She is goodnatured, only she works herself up. You hear she takes you for Korovkin, but afterwards she will forgive you, I assure you… . What do you want?” he cried to Gavrila, who came into the room trembling with fear.
Gavrila came in not alone; with him was a very pretty peasant boy of sixteen who had been taken as a house serf on account of his good looks, as I heard afterwards. His name was Falaley. He was wearing a peculiar costume, a red silk shirt with embroidery at the neck and a belt of gold braid, full black velveteen breeches, and goatskin boots turned over with red. This costume was designed by Madame la Générale herself. The boy was sobbing bitterly, and tears rolled one after another from his big blue eyes.
“What’s this now?” cried my uncle. “What has happened? Speak, you ruffian!”
“Foma Fomitch told us to come here; he is coming after us himself,” answered the despondent Gavrila. “Me for an examination, while he …”
“He?”
“He has been dancing, sir,” answered Gavrila in a tearful voice.
“Dancing!” cried my uncle in horror.
“Dancing,” blubbered Falaley with a sob.
“The Komarinsky!”
“Yes, the Kom-a-rin-sky.”
“And Foma Fomitch found him?”
“Ye-es, he found me.”
“You’ll be the death of me!” cried my uncle. “I am done for!” And he clutched his head in both hands.
“Foma Fomitch!” Vidoplyasov announced, entering the room.
The door opened, and Foma Fomitch in his own person stood facing the perplexed company.
CHAPTER
