when he reached his hotel room and stretched himself on his sofa he felt exceedingly uneasy.
“The devil take him!” he thought. “A duel does not matter, he won’t kill me, but the trouble is the other fellows will hear of it, and they know perfectly well it was a yarn. It’s abominable! I shall be disgraced all over Russia… .”
Podzharov thought a little, smoked, and to calm himself went out into the street.
“I ought to talk to this bully, ram into his stupid noddle that he is a blockhead and a fool, and that I am not in the least afraid of him… .”
The jeune premier stopped before Zybaev’s house and looked at the windows. Lights were still burning behind the muslin curtains and figures were moving about.
“I’ll wait for him!” the actor decided.
It was dark and cold. A hateful autumn rain was drizzling as though through a sieve. Podzharov leaned his elbow on a lamp-post and abandoned himself to a feeling of uneasiness.
He was wet through and exhausted.
At two o’clock in the night the guests began coming out of Zybaev’s house. The landowner from Tula was the last to make his appearance. He heaved a sigh that could be heard by the whole street and scraped the pavement with his heavy overboots.
“Excuse me!” said the jeune premier, overtaking him. “One minute.”
Klimov stopped. The actor gave a smile, hesitated, and began, stammering: “I… I confess… I told a lie.”
“No, sir, you will please confess that publicly,” said Klimov, and he turned crimson again. “I can’t leave it like that… .”
“But you see I am apologizing! I beg you… don’t you understand? I beg you because you will admit a duel will make talk, and I am in a position…. My fellow-actors… goodness knows what they may think… .”
The jeune premier tried to appear unconcerned, to smile, to stand erect, but his body would not obey him, his voice trembled, his eyes blinked guiltily, and his head drooped. For a good while he went on muttering something. Klimov listened to him, thought a little, and heaved a sigh.
“Well, so be it,” he said. “May God forgive you. Only don’t lie in future, young man. Nothing degrades a man like lying… yes, indeed! You are a young man, you have had a good education… .”
The landowner from Tula, in a benignant, fatherly way, gave him a lecture, while the jeune premier listened and smiled meekly…. When it was over he smirked, bowed, and with a guilty step and a crestfallen air set off for his hotel.
As he went to bed half an hour later he felt that he was out of danger and was already in excellent spirits. Serene and satisfied that the misunderstanding had ended so satisfactorily, he wrapped himself in the bedclothes, soon fell asleep, and slept soundly till ten o’clock next morning.
IN THE DARK
Translation By Constance Garnett
A FLY of medium size made its way into the nose of the assistant procurator, Gagin. It may have been impelled by curiosity, or have got there through frivolity or accident in the dark; anyway, the nose resented the presence of a foreign body and gave the signal for a sneeze. Gagin sneezed, sneezed impressively and so shrilly and loudly that the bed shook and the springs creaked. Gagin’s wife, Marya Mihalovna, a full, plump, fair woman, started, too, and woke up. She gazed into the darkness, sighed, and turned over on the other side. Five minutes afterwards she turned over again and shut her eyes more firmly but she could not get to sleep again. After sighing and tossing from side to side for a time, she got up, crept over her husband, and putting on her slippers, went to the window.
It was dark outside. She could see nothing but the outlines of the trees and the roof of the stables. There was a faint pallor in the east, but this pallor was beginning to be clouded over. There was perfect stillness in the air wrapped in slumber and darkness. Even the watchman, paid to disturb the stillness of night, was silent; even the corncrake — the only wild creature of the feathered tribe that does not shun the proximity of summer visitors — was silent.
The stillness was broken by Marya Mihalovna herself. Standing at the window and gazing into the yard, she suddenly uttered a cry. She fancied that from the flower garden with the gaunt, clipped poplar, a dark figure was creeping towards the house. For the first minute she thought it was a cow or a horse, then, rubbing her eyes, she distinguished clearly the outlines of a man.
Then she fancied the dark figure approached the window of the kitchen and, standing still a moment, apparently undecided, put one foot on the window ledge and disappeared into the darkness of the window.
“A burglar!” flashed into her mind and a deathly pallor overspread her face.
And in one instant her imagination had drawn the picture so dreaded by lady visitors in country places — a burglar creeps into the kitchen, from the kitchen into the dining-room … the silver in the cupboard … next into the bedroom … an axe … the face of a brigand … jewelry… . Her knees gave way under her and a shiver ran down her back.
“Vassya!” she said, shaking her husband, “Basile! Vassily Prokovitch! Ah! mercy on us, he might be dead! Wake up, Basile, I beseech you!”
“W-well?” grunted the assistant procurator, with a deep inward breath and a munching sound.
“For God’s sake, wake up! A burglar has got into the kitchen! I was standing at the window looking out and someone got in at the window. He will get into the dining-room next … the spoons are in the cupboard! Basile! They broke into Mavra Yegorovna’s last year.”
“Wha — what’s the matter?”
“Heavens! he does not understand. Do listen, you stupid! I tell you I’ve just seen a man getting in at the kitchen window! Pelagea will be frightened and … and the silver is in the cupboard!”
“Stuff and nonsense!”
“Basile, this is unbearable! I tell you of a real danger and you sleep and grunt! What would you have? Would you have us robbed and murdered?”
The assistant procurator slowly got up and sat on the bed, filling the air with loud yawns.
“Goodness knows what creatures women are! he muttered. “Can’t leave one in peace even at night! To wake a man for such nonsense!”
“But, Basile, I swear I saw a man getting in at the window!”
“Well, what of it? Let him get in… . That’s pretty sure to be Pelagea’s sweetheart, the fireman.”
“What! what did you say?”
“I say it’s Pelagea’s fireman come to see her.”
“Worse than ever!” shrieked Marya Mihalovna. “That’s worse than a burglar! I won’t put up with cynicism in my house!”
“Hoity-toity! We are virtuous! … Won’t put up with cynicism? As though it were cynicism! What’s the use of firing off those foreign words? My dear girl, it’s a thing that has happened ever since the world began, sanctified by tradition. What’s a fireman for if not to make love to the cook?”
“No, Basile! It seems you don’t know me! I cannot face the idea of such a … such a … in my house. You must go this minute into the kitchen and tell him to go away! This very minute! And tomorrow I’ll tell Pelagea that she must not dare to demean herself by such proceedings! When I am dead you may allow immorality in your house, but you shan’t do it now! … Please go!”
“Damn it,” grumbled Gagin, annoyed. “Consider with your microscopic