lady (her name was Matrona Semyonovna Suhantchikov—she was a widow, childless, and not rich, and had been travelling from country to country for two years past) began with peculiar exasperated vehemence:
‘Well, so he appears before the prince and says to him: “Your Excellency,” he says, “in such an office and such a position as yours, what will it cost you to alleviate my lot? You,” he says, “cannot but respect the purity of my ideas! And is it possible,” he says, “in these days to persecute a man for his ideas?” And what do you suppose the prince did, that cultivated dignitary in that exalted position?’
‘Why, what did he do?’ observed Gubaryov, lighting a cigarette with a meditative air.
The lady drew herself up and held out her bony right hand, with the first finger separated from the rest.
‘He called his groom and said to him, “Take off that man’s coat at once, and keep it yourself. I make you a present of that coat!” ’
‘And did the groom take it?’ asked Bambaev, throwing up his arms.
‘He took it and kept it. And that was done by Prince Barnaulov, the well-known rich grandee, invested with special powers, the representative of the government. What is one to expect after that!’
The whole frail person of Madame Suhantchikov was shaking with indignation, spasms passed over her face, her withered bosom was heaving convulsively under her flat corset; of her eyes it is needless to speak, they were fairly leaping out of her head. But then they were always leaping, whatever she might be talking about.
‘A crying shame, a crying shame!’ cried Bambaev. ‘No punishment could be bad enough!’
‘Mmm. … Mmm. … From top to bottom it’s all rotten,’ observed Gubaryov, without raising his voice, however. ‘In that case punishment is not … that needs … other measures.’
‘But is it really true?’ commented Litvinov.
‘Is it true?’ broke in Madame Suhantchikov. ‘Why, that one can’t even dream of doubting … can’t even d-d-d-ream of it.’ She pronounced these words with such energy that she was fairly shaking with the effort. ‘I was told of that by a very trustworthy man. And you, Stepan Nikolaitch, know him—Elistratov, Kapiton. He heard it himself from eyewitnesses, spectators of this disgraceful scene.’
‘What Elistratov?’ inquired Gubaryov. ‘The one who was in Kazan?’
‘Yes. I know, Stepan Nikolaitch, a rumour was spread about him that he took bribes there from some contractors or distillers. But then who is it says so? Pelikanov! And how can one believe Pelikanov, when every one knows he is simply—a spy!’
‘No, with your permission, Matrona Semyonovna,’ interposed Bambaev, ‘I am friends with Pelikanov, he is not a spy at all.’
‘Yes, yes, that’s just what he is, a spy!’
‘But wait a minute, kindly——’
‘A spy, a spy!’ shrieked Madame Suhantchikov.
‘No, no, one minute, I tell you what,’ shrieked Bambaev in his turn.
‘A spy, a spy,’ persisted Madame Suhantchikov.
‘No, no! There’s Tentelyev now, that’s a different matter,’ roared Bambaev with all the force of his lungs.
Madame Suhantchikov was silent for a moment.
‘I know for a fact about that gentleman,’ he continued in his ordinary voice, ‘that when he was summoned before the secret police, he grovelled at the feet of the Countess Blazenkrampff and kept whining, “Save me, intercede for me!” But Pelikanov never demeaned himself to baseness like that.’
‘Mm … Tentelyev …’ muttered Gubaryov, ‘that … that ought to be noted.’
Madame Suhantchikov shrugged her shoulders contemptuously.
‘They’re one worse than another,’ she said, ‘but I know a still better story about Tentelyev. He was, as every one knows, a most horrible despot with his serfs, though he gave himself out for an emancipator. Well, he was once at some friend’s house in Paris, and suddenly in comes Madame Beecher Stowe—you know, Uncle Tom’s Cabin. Tentelyev, who’s an awfully pushing fellow, began asking the host to present him; but directly she heard his name. “What?” she said, “he presumes to be introduced to the author of Uncle Tom?” And she gave him a slap on the cheek! “Go away!” she says, “at once!” And what do you think? Tentelyev took his hat and slunk away, pretty crestfallen.’
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