«Don’t be silly, girls!» repeated Rashevich.
«In short, that is exactly how things stand,» he said, looking affectionately at the magistrate. «We, in the goodness and simplicity of our hearts, and from fear of being suspected of retrograde tendencies, fraternise—excuse the expression—with all kinds of human trash, and preach equality and fraternity with upstarts and nouveaux riches! Yet if we paused to reflect for a single minute we should see how criminal is our kindness. For all that our ancestors attained to in the course of centuries will be derided and destroyed in a single day by these modern Huns.»
After supper all went into the drawing-room. Zhenya and Iraida lighted the piano candles and got ready their music…. But their parent continued to hold forth, and there was no knowing when he would end. Bored and irritated, they looked at their egoist father, for whom, they concluded, the satisfaction of chattering and showing off his brains, was dearer than the future happiness of his daughters. Here was Meyer, the only young man who frequented the house—for the sake, they knew, of tender feminine society—yet the unwearying old man kept possession of him, and never let him escape for a moment.
«Just as western chivalry repelled the onslaught of the Mongols, so must we, before it is too late, combine and strike together at the enemy.» Rashevich spoke apostolically, and lifted his right hand on high. «Let me appear before the potboy no longer as plain Pavel Ilyich, but as a strong and menacing Richard the Lion-Heart! Fling your scruples behind you—enough! Let us swear a sacred compact that when the potboy approaches we will fling him words of contempt straight in the face! Hands off! Back to your pots! Straight in the face!» In ecstacy, Rashevich thrust out a bent forefinger, and repeated: «Straight in the face! In the face! In the face!»
Meyer averted his eyes. «I cannot tolerate this any longer!» he said.
«And may I ask why?» asked Rashevich, scenting the beginnings of a prolonged and interesting argument.
«Because I myself am the son of an artisan.» And having so spoken, Meyer reddened, his neck seemed to swell, and tears sparkled in his eyes..
«My father was a plain working man,» he said in an abrupt, broken voice. «But I can see nothing bad in that.»
Rashevich was thunderstruck. In his confusion he looked as if he had been detected in a serious crime; he looked at Meyer with a dumfounded face, and said not a word. Zhenya and Iraida blushed, and bent over their music. They were thoroughly ashamed of their tactless father. A minute passed in silence, and the situation was becoming unbearable when suddenly a sickly, strained voice—it seemed utterly mal à propos—stammered forth the words:
«Yes, I am a tradesman’s son, and I am proud of it.» And Meyer, awkwardly stumbling over the furniture, said good-bye, and walked quickly into the hall, although the trap had not been ordered.
«You will have a dark drive,» stammered Rashevich, going after him. «The moon rises late to-night.» They stood on the steps in the darkness and waited for the horses. It was cold.
«Did you see the falling star?» asked Meyer, buttoning his overcoat.
«In August falling stars are very plentiful.»
When at last the trap drove round to the door, Rashevich looked attentively at the heavens, and said, with a sigh:
«A phenomenon worthy of the pen of Flammarion….»
Having parted from his guest, he walked up and down the garden, and tried to persuade himself that such a stupid misunderstanding had not really taken place. He was angry, and ashamed of himself. In the first place, he knew that it was extremely tactless and incautious to raise this accursed conversation about the white bone without knowing anything of the origin of his guest. He told himself, with perfect justice, that for him there was no excuse, for he had had a lesson before, having once in a railway carriage set about abusing Germans to fellow-passengers who, it turned out, were themselves Germans…. And in the second place he was convinced that Meyer would come no more. These intellectuels who have sprung from the people are sensitive, vain, obstinate, and revengeful.
«It is a bad business … bad … bad!» he muttered, spitting; he felt awkward and disgusted, as if he had just eaten soap. «It is a bad business!»
Through the open window he could see into the drawing-room where Zhenya with her hair down, pale and frightened, spoke excitedly to her sister…. Iraida walked from corner to corner, apparently lost in thought; and then began to speak, also excitedly and with an indignant face. Then both spoke together. Rashevich could not distinguish a word, but he knew too well the subject of their conversation. Zhenya was grumbling that her father with his eternal chattering drove every decent man from the house, and had to-day robbed them of their last acquaintance, it might have been husband; and now the poor young man could not find a place in the whole district wherein to rest his soul. And Iraida, if judged correctly from the despairing way in which she raised her arms, lamented bitterly their wearisome life at home and their ruined youth.
Going up to his bedroom, Rashevich sat on the bed and undressed himself slowly. He felt that he was a persecuted man, and was tormented by the same feeling as though he had eaten soap. He was thoroughly ashamed of himself. When he had undressed he gazed sadly at his long, veined, old-man’s legs, and remembered that in the country round he was nicknamed «the toad,» and that never a conversation passed without making him ashamed of himself. By some extraordinary fatality every discussion ended badly. He began softly, kindly, with good intentions, and called himself genially an «old student,» an «idealist,» a «Don Quixote.» But gradually, and unnoticed by himself, he passed on to abuse and calumny, and, what is more surprising, delivered himself of sincere criticisms of science, art, and morals, although it was twenty years since he had read a book, been farther than the government town, or had any channel for learning what was going on in the world around him. Even when he sat down to write a congratulatory letter he invariably ended by abusing something or somebody. And as he reflected upon this, it seemed all the more strange, since he knew himself in reality to be a sensitive, lachrymose old man. It seemed almost as if he were possessed by an unclean spirit which filled him against his will with hatred and grumbling.
«A bad business!» he sighed, getting into bed. «A bad business!»
His daughters also could not sleep. Laughter and lamentation resounded through the house. Zhenya was in hysterics. Shortly afterwards Iraida also began to cry. More than once the barefooted housemaid ran up and down the corridor.
«What a scandal!» muttered Rashevich, sighing, and turning uneasily from side to side. «A bad business!»
He slept, but nightmare gave him no peace. He thought that he was standing in the middle of the room, naked, and tall as a giraffe, thrusting out his forefinger, and saying:
«In the face! In the face! In the face!»
He awoke in terror, and the first thing he remembered was, that last evening a serious misunderstanding had occurred, and that Meyer would never visit him again. He remembered then that the interest had to be lodged in the bonk, that he must find husbands for his daughters, and that he must eat and drink. He remembered sickness, old age, and unpleasantness; that winter would soon be upon him, and that there was no wood….
At nine o’clock he dressed slowly, then drank some tea and ate two large slices of bread and butter…. His daughters did not come down to breakfast, they did not wish to see his face; and this offended him. For a time he lay upon the study sofa, and then sat at his writing-table and began to write a letter to his daughters. His hand trembled and his eyes itched. He wrote that he was now old, that nobody wanted him, and that nobody loved him; so he begged his children to forget him, and when he died, to bury him in a plain, deal coffin, without ceremony, or to send his body to Kharkoff for dissection in the Anatomical Theatre. He felt that every line breathed malice and affectation … but he could not stop himself, and wrote on and on and on….
«The toad!» rang a voice from the next room; it was the voice of his elder daughter, an indignant, hissing voice. «The toad!»
«The toad!» repeated the younger in echo. «The toad!»
