the irritated, angry editor was running to and fro in the large, light editorial office of the "n—— gazette," crumpling in his hand a copy of the publication, spasmodically shouting and swearing. it was a tiny figure, with a sharp, thin face, decorated with a little beard and gold eyeglasses. stamping loudly with his thin legs, encased in gray trousers, he fairly whirled about the long table, which stood in the middle of the room, and was loaded down with crumpled newspapers, galley-proofs, and fragments of manuscript. at the table, with one hand resting upon it, while with the other he wiped his brow, stood the publisher—a tall, stout, fair-haired man, of middle age, and with a faint grin on his white, well-fed face, he watched the editor with merry, brilliant eyes. the maker-up, an angular man, with a yellow face and a sunken chest, in a light-brown coat, which was very dirty and far too long for him, was shrinking closely against the wall. he raised his brows, and gazed at the ceiling with staring eyes, as though trying to recall something, or in meditation, but a moment later, wrinkled up his nose in a disenchanted way, and dropped his head dejectedly on his breast. in the doorway stood the form of the office boy; men with anxious, dissatisfied countenances kept entering and disappearing, jostling him on their way. the voice of the editor, cross, irritated, and ringing, sometimes rose to a squeal, and made the publisher frown and the maker-up shudder in affright.

[pg 294]

"no ... this is such a rascally piece of business! i'll start a criminal suit against this scoundrel.... has the proof-reader arrived? devil take it,—i ask—has the proof-reader arrived? call all the compositors here! have you told them? no, just imagine, what will happen now! all the newspapers will take it up.... dis-grrrace! all russia will hear of it.... i won't let that scoundrel off!"

and raising his hands which held the newspaper to his head, the editor stood rooted to the spot, as though endeavoring to wrap his head in the paper, and thus protect it from the anticipated disgrace.

"find him first,..." advised the publisher, with a dry laugh.

"i'll f-find him, sir! i'll f-find him!"—the editor's eyes blazed, and starting on his gallop once more, and pressing the newspaper to his breast, he began to tousle it fiercely.—"i'll find him, and i'll roast him.... and where's that proof-reader?... aha!... here.... now, sir, i beg that you will favor me with your company, my dear sirs! hm!... 'the peaceful commanders of the leaden armies ...' ha, ha! pass in ... there, that's it!"

one after another the compositors entered the room. they already knew what the trouble was, and each one of them had prepared himself to play the part of the culprit, in view of which fact, they all unanimously expressed in their grimy faces, impregnated with lead dust, complete immobility and a sort of wooden composure. they huddled together, in the corner of the room, in a dense group. the editor halted in front of them, with his hands, clutching the newspaper, thrown behind his back. he was shorter in stature than they, and he was obliged to hold[pg 295] back his head, in order to look them in the face. he made this movement too quickly, and his spectacles flew up on his forehead; thinking that they were about to fall, he flung his hand into the air to catch them, but, at that moment, they fell back again on the bridge of his nose.

"devil take you..." he gritted his teeth.

happy smiles beamed on the grimy countenances of the compositors. someone uttered a suppressed laugh.

"i have not summoned you hither that you may show your teeth at me!"—shouted the editor viciously, turning livid.—"i should think you had disgraced the newspaper enough already.... if there be an honest man among you, who understands what a newspaper is, what the press is, let him tell who was the author of this.... in the leading article...." the editor began nervously to unfold the paper.

"but what's it all about?" said a voice, in which nothing but simple curiosity was audible.

"ah! you don't know? well, then ... here ... 'our factory legislation has always served the press as a subject for hot discussion ... that is to say, for the talking of stupid trash and nonsense!...' there, now! are you satisfied? will the man who added that 'talking' be pleased ... and, particularly—the word 'talking'! how grammatical and witty!—well, sirs, which of you is the author of that 'stupid trash and non-sense'?"

"whose article is it? yours? well, and you are the author of all the nonsense that is said in it,"—rang out the same calm voice which had previously put the question to the editor.

this was insolent, and all involuntarily assumed that the person who was to blame for the affair had been found.[pg 296] a movement took place in the hall: the publisher drew nearer to the group, the editor raised himself on tiptoe, in the endeavor to see over the heads of the compositors into the face of the speaker. the compositors separated. before the editor stood a stoutly-built young fellow, in a blue blouse, with a pock-marked face, and curling locks of hair which stood up in a crest above his left temple. he stood with his hands thrust deeply into the pockets of his trousers, and, indifferently riveting his gray, mischievous eyes on the editor, he smiled faintly from out of his curling, light-brown beard. everybody looked at him:—the publisher, with brows contracted in a scowl, the editor with amazement and wrath, the maker-up with a suppressed smile. the faces of the compositors expressed both badly-concealed satisfaction and alarm and curiosity.

"so ... it's you?"—inquired the editor, at last, pointing at the pock-marked compositor with his finger and compressing his lips in a highly significant manner.

"yes ... it's i...." replied the latter, grinning in a particularly simple and offensive manner.

"a-ah!... very glad to know it! so it's you? why did you put it in, permit me to inquire?"

"but have i said that i did put it in?"—and the compositor glanced at his comrades.

"it certainly was he, mítry[1] pávlovitch," the maker-up remarked to the editor.

[1] mítry—colloquial abbreviation of dmítry.—translator.

"well, if i did, i did,"—assented the compositor, not without a certain good-nature, and waving his hand he smiled again.

again all remained silent. no one had expected so prompt and calm a confession, and it acted upon them all as a surprise. even the editor's wrath was converted, for a[pg 297] moment, into amazement. the space around the pock-marked man grew wider, the maker-up went off quickly to the table, the compositors stepped aside ...

"then you did it deliberately, intentionally?" inquired the publisher, smiling, and staring at the pock-marked man with eyes round with astonishment.

"be so good as to answer!"—shouted the editor, flourishing the crumpled newspaper.

"don't shout ... i'm not afraid. a great many people have yelled at me, and all without any cause! ..." and in the compositor's eyes sparkled a daring, impudent light.... "exactly so ..." he went on, shifting from foot to foot, and now addressing the publisher,—"i put in the words deliberately...."

"you hear?"—the editor appealed to the audience.

"well, as a matter of fact, what did you mean by it, you devil's doll!"—the publisher suddenly flared up.—"do you understand how much harm you have done me?"

"it's nothing to you.... i think it must even have increased the retail sales. but here's the editor ... really, that bit didn't exactly suit his taste."

the editor was fairly petrified with indignation; he stood in front of that cool, malicious man, and flashed his eyes in silence, finding no words wherewith to express his agitated feelings.

"well, it will be the worse for you, brother, on account of this!"—drawled the publisher malevolently, and, suddenly softening, he slapped his knee with his hand.

in reality, he was pleased with what had happened, and with the workman's insolent reply: the editor had always treated him rather patronizingly, making no effort to conceal his consciousness of his own mental superiority, and[pg 298] now he, that same conceited, self-confident man, was thrown prostrate in the dust ... and by whom?

"i'll pay you off for your insolence to me, my dear soul!" he added.

"why, you certainly won't overlook it so!" assented the compositor.

this tone and these words again produced a sensation. the compositors exchanged glances with one another, the maker-up elevated his eyebrows, and seemed to shrivel up, the editor retreated to the table, and supporting himself on it with his hands, more disconcerted and offended than angry, he stared intently at his foe.

"what's your name?" inquired the publisher, taking his notebook from his pocket.

"nikólka[2] gvózdeff, vasíly ivánovitch!" the maker-up promptly stated.

[2] colloquial for nikolái.—translator.

"and you, you lackey of judas the traitor, hold your tongue when you're not spoken to,"—said the compositor, with a surly glance at the maker-up.—"i have a tongue of my own,... i answer for myself.... my name is nikolá? semyónovitch gvózdeff. my residence ...."

"we'll find that out!"—promised the publisher.—"and now, take yourself off to the devil! get out, all of you!..."

with a heavy shuffling of feet, the compositors departed. gvózdeff followed them.

"stop ... if you please...." said the editor softly, but distinctly, and stretched out his hand after gvózdeff.

gvózdeff turned toward him, with an indolent movement leaned against the door-jamb, and, as he twisted his beard, he riveted his insolent eyes upon the editor's face.

[pg 299]

"i want to ask you about something,"—began the editor. he tried to maintain his composure, but this he did not succeed in doing: his voice broke, and rose to a shriek.—"you have confessed ... that in creating this scandal ... you had me in view. yes? what is the meaning of that? revenge on me? i ask you—what did you do it for? do you understand me? can you answer me?"

gvózdeff twitched his shoulders, curled his lips, and dropping his head, remained silent for a minute. the publisher tapped his foot impatiently, the maker-up stretched his neck forward, and the editor bit his lips, and nervously cracked his fingers. all waited.

"i'll tell you, if you like.... only, as i'm an uneducated man, perhaps it won't be intelligible to you ... well, in that case, pray excuse me!... now, here's the way the matter stands. you write various articles, and inculcate on everybody philanthropy and all that sort of thing.... i can't tell you all this in detail—i'm not much of a hand at reading and writing.... i think you know yourself, what you discourse about every day.... well, and so i read your articles. you make comments on us workingmen ... and i read it all.... and it disgusts me to read it, for it's nothing but nonsense. mere shameless words, mítry pávlovitch!... because you write—don't steal, but what goes on in your own printing-office? last week, kiryákoff worked three days and a half, earned three rubles and eighty kopéks[3] and fell ill. his wife comes to the counting-room for the money, but the manager tells her, that he won't give it to her, and that she owes one ruble and twenty kopéks in fines. now talk about not stealing![pg 300] why don't you write about these ways of doing things? and about how the manager yells, and thrashes the poor little boys for every trifle?... you can't write about that, because you pursue the same policy yourself.... you write that life in the world is hard for folks—and i'll just tell you, that the reason you write all that, is because you don't know how to do anything else. that's the whole truth of the matter.... and that's why you don't see any of the brutal things that go on right under your nose, but you narrate very well about the brutalities of the turks. so aren't they nonsense—those articles of yours? i've been wanting this long time to put some words into your articles, just to shame you. and it oughtn't to be needed again!"

[3] about $1.90.—translator.

gvózdeff felt himself a hero. he puffed out his chest proudly, held his head very high, and without attempting to conceal his triumph, he looked the editor straight in the face. but the editor shrank close against the table, clutched it with his hands, flung himself back, paling and flushing by turns, and smiling persistently in a scornful, confused, vicious, and suffering manner. his widely-opened eyes winked fast.

"a socialist?"—inquired the publisher, with apprehension and interest, in a low voice, addressing the editor. the latter smiled a sickly smile, but made no reply, and hung his head.

the maker-up went off to the window, where stood a tub in which grew a huge filodendron, that cast upon the floor a pattern of shade, took up his post behind the tub, and thence watched them all, with eyes which were as small, black, and shifty as those of a mouse. they expressed a certain impatient expectation, and now and then a little flash of joy lighted them up. the publisher stared[pg 301] at the editor. the latter was conscious of this, raised his head, and with an uneasy gleam in his eyes, and a nervous quiver in his face, he shouted after the departing gvózdeff:

"stop ... if you please! you have insulted me. but you are not in the right—i hope you feel that? i am grateful to you for ... y-your ... straightforwardness, with which you have spoken out, but, i repeat...."

he tried to speak ironically, but instead of irony, something wan and false rang in his words, and he paused, in order to tune himself up to a defence which should be worthy of himself and of this judge, as to whose right to sit in judgment upon him, the editor, he had never before entertained a thought.

"of course!"—and gvózdeff nodded his head.—"the only one who is right is the one who can say a great deal."

and, as he stood in the doorway, he cast a glance around him, with an expression on his face which plainly showed how impatient he was to get away from there.

"no, excuse me!"—cried the editor, elevating his tone, and raising his hand.—"you have brought forward an accusation against me, but before that, you arbitrarily punished me for what you regard as a fault toward you on my part.... i have a right to defend myself, and i request that you will listen to me."

"but what business have you with me? defend yourself to the publisher, if necessary. but what have you to say to me? if i have insulted you, drag me before the justice of the peace. but—defend yourself—that's another matter! good-bye!"—he turned sharply about, and putting his hands behind his back, he left the room.

he had on his feet heavy boots with large heels, with[pg 302] which he tramped noisily, and his footsteps echoed resoundingly in the vast, shed-like editorial room.

"there you have history and geography—a detailed statement of the case!"—exclaimed the publisher, when gvózdeff had slammed the door behind him.

"vasíly ivánovitch, i am not to blame in this matter ...." began the maker-up, throwing his hands apart apologetically, as he approached the publisher with short, cautious steps. "i make up the pages, and i can't possibly tell what the man on duty has put into them. i'm on my feet all night.... i'm here, while my wife lies ill at home, and my children ... three of them ... have no one to look after them.... i may say that i sell my blood, drop by drop, for thirty rubles a month.... and when gvózdeff was hired, i said to feódor pávlovitch: 'feódor pávlovitch,' says i, 'i've known nikólka ever since he was a little boy, and i'm bound to tell you, that nikólka is an insolent fellow and a thief, a man without conscience. he has already been tried in the district court,' says i, 'and has even been in prison....'"

"what was he in prison for?"—inquired the editor thoughtfully, without looking at the narrator.

"for pigeons, sir ... that is to say, not because of the pigeons, but for smashing locks. he smashed the locks of seven dove-cotes in one night, sir!... and set all the flocks at liberty—scattered all the birds, sir! a pair of dark-gray ones belonging to me disappeared also,—one fancy tumbler, and a pouter. they were very valuable birds."

"did he steal them?"—inquired the publisher with curiosity.

"no, he doesn't pamper himself in that way. he was[pg 303] tried for theft, but he was acquitted. so he's—an insolent fellow..... he released the birds, and delighted in it, and jeered at us fanciers.... he has been thrashed more than once already. once he even had to go to the hospital after the thrashing.... and when he came out, he bred devils in my gossip's stove."[4]

[4] the word means "fellow sponsor" or intimate friend—the precise sense does not always appear from the context. but it is worth noting that a man and a woman who stand sponsors for a child in baptism, in the eastern catholic church, thereby place themselves within the forbidden degrees of relationship, and can never marry each other.—translator.

"devils!" said the publisher in amazement.

"what twaddle!"—the editor shrugged his shoulders, knit his brows, and again biting his lips, he relapsed into thought.

"it's perfectly true, only i didn't say it just right,"—said the maker-up abashed.—"you see, he, nikólka, is a stove-builder. he's a jack-of-all-trades: he understands the lithographic trade, he has been an engraver, and a plumber, also.... well, then, my gossip—she has a house of her own, and belongs to the ecclesiastical class—and she hired him to rebuild her stove. well, he rebuilt it all right; only, the rascally fellow, he cemented into the wall a bottle filled with quicksilver and needles ... and he put something else in, too. this produced a sound—such a peculiar sound, you know, like a groan and a sigh; and then folks began to say that devils had bred in the house. when they heated the stove, the quicksilver in the bottle warmed up, and began to roam about in it. and the needles scratched against the glass, just as though somebody were gnashing his teeth. besides the needles, he had put various iron objects into the bottle, and they made noises, too, after their own fashion,—the[pg 304] needle after its fashion, the nail after its fashion, and the result was a regular devil's music.... my gossip even tried to sell her house, but nobody would buy it—who likes to have devils round, sir? she had three prayer-services with blessing of holy water celebrated—it did no good. the woman bawled; she had a daughter of marriageable age, a hundred head of fowl, two cows, and a good farm ... and these devils must needs spoil everything! she struggled and struggled, so that it was pitiful to see. but i must say that nikólka rescued her. 'give me fifty rubles,' says he, 'and i'll drive out the devils!' she gave him four to start with,—and afterward, when he had pulled out the bottle, and confessed what the matter was—well, good-bye! she's a very clever woman, and she wanted to hand him over to the police, but he persuaded her not to.... and he has a lot of other artful dodges."

"and for one of those charming 'artful dodges' yesterday i shall have to pay. i!"—ejaculated the editor nervously, and tearing himself from his place, he again began to fling himself about the room.—"oh my god! how stupid, how coarse, how trivial it all is...."

"we-ell, you're making a great fuss over it!"—said the publisher soothingly.—"make a correction, explain how it happened.... he's a very interesting young fellow, deuce take him! he put devils in the stove, ha, ha! no, by heaven! we'll teach him a lesson, but he's a rascal with a brain, and he arouses for himself some feeling of ... you know!"—the publisher snapped his fingers over his head, and cast a glance at the ceiling.

"does it interest you?"—cried the editor sharply.

"well, why not? isn't it amusing? and he described you pretty thoroughly. he's got wit, the beast!"—the[pg 305] publisher said, taking revenge on the editor for his shout.—"how do you intend to pay him off?"

the editor suddenly ran close up to the publisher.

"i shall not pay him off, sir! i can't, vasíly ivánovitch, because that manufacturer of devils is in the right! the devil knows what goes on in your printing-office, do you hear? but we!... but i have to play the fool, thanks to you. he's in the right, a thousand times over!"

"and also in the addition which he made to your article?"—inquired the publisher venomously, and pursed up his lips ironically.

"well, and what if he was? and he was right, in that also, yes! you must understand, vasíly ivánovitch, for, you know, we're a liberal newspaper...."

"and we print an edition of two thousand, reckoning in those gratuitously distributed and the exchanges,"—dryly interposed the publisher.—"but our competitor disposes of nine thousand!"

"we-ell, sir?"

"i have nothing more to say!"

the editor waved his hand hopelessly, and again, with dimming eyes, he began to pace up and down the room.

"a charming situation!"—he muttered, shrugging his shoulders.—"a sort of universal chase! all the dogs hunting down one, and that one muzzled! ha, ha! and that unfortunate w-workman! oh my god!"

"why, spit on the whole business, my dear fellow, don't get worked up over it!"—counselled vasíly ivánovitch suddenly, with a good-natured grin, as though tired out with emotions and recriminations.—"it has come and it will go, and you will re-establish your honor. the affair is far more ridiculous than dramatic." he pacifically[pg 306] offered the editor his plump hand, and was on the point of quitting the room for the office.

all at once, the door leading into the office opened, and gvózdeff made his appearance on the threshold. he had his cap on, and smiled not without a certain amount of courtesy.

"i have come to tell you, mr. editor, that if you want to sue me, say so—for i'm going away from here, and i don't want to be brought back, by stages, by the police."

"take yourself off!"—howled the editor, almost sobbing with wrath, and rushed to the other end of the room.

"that means, we're quits,"—said gvózdeff, adjusting his cap on his head, and coolly wheeling round on the threshold, he disappeared.

"o-oh, the beast!"—sighed vasíly ivánovitch, in rapture, to gvózdeff's back, and with a blissful smile he began, in a leisurely manner, to put on his overcoat.

*

two days after the scene described above, gvózdeff, in a blue blouse, confined with a leather strap, in trousers hanging freely, and laced shoes, in a white cap worn over one ear, and the nape of his neck, and with a knobby stick in his hand, was walking staidly along the "hill."

the "hill" presented a sloping descent to the river. in ancient times, this slope had been covered with a dense grove. now, almost the whole of the grove had been felled, the gnarled oaks and elms, shattered by thunderstorms, reared heavenward their aged hollow boles, spreading far abroad their knotted boughs. around their roots twined the young sprouts, small bushes clung to their trunks, and everywhere amid the greenery the rambling public had trodden winding paths, which crept downward to the river all flooded with the radiance of the sun.[pg 307] horizontally intersecting the "hill" ran a broad avenue—an abandoned post-road,—and along this, chiefly, the public strolled, promenading in two files, one going in each direction.

gvózdeff had always been very fond of strolling back and forth along this avenue, with the public, and of feeling himself one of them, and, like them, freely breathing the air impregnated with the fragrance of the foliage, of freely and lazily moving along, and being a part of something great, and feeling himself equal to all the rest.

on this day, he was on the verge of being tipsy, and his resolute, pock-marked face had a good-natured, sociable expression. from his left temple his chestnut forelocks curled upward. handsomely shading his ear, they lay on the band of his cap, imparting to gvózdeff the dashing air of a young artisan, who is satisfied with himself, and even ready, on the instant, to sing a song, to dance, and to fight, and not averse to drinking every minute. with these characteristic forelocks nature herself seemed to be desirous of recommending nikólka gvózdeff to everyone as a fiery young fellow, who was conscious of his own value. glancing about him approvingly, with his gray eyes puckered up, gvózdeff, in a perfectly peaceable manner, jostled the public, bore its nudges with entire equanimity, excused himself, when he trod on the ladies' trains, in company with the rest swallowed the thick dust, and felt extremely well. athwart the foliage of the trees, the sun could be seen setting in the meadows beyond the river. the sky there was purple, warm, and caressing, alluring one thither to the spot where it touched the rim of the dark green fields. beneath the feet of the promenaders lay a tracery of shadows, and the throng of people trod upon them, without noticing their beauty. foppishly thrusting[pg 308] a cigarette into the left corner of his lips, and idly emitting from the right corner little streams of smoke, gvózdeff scanned the public, feeling within him a genuine desire to have a chat with someone, over a couple of mugs of beer in the restaurant, at the foot of the "hill." he encountered none of his acquaintances, and no suitable opportunity for picking up a new acquaintance presented itself; for some reason, the public was gloomy, in spite of its being a festival and with clear weather, and did not respond to his communicative mood, although he had, already, more than once, stared into the faces of the people he met with a good-natured smile, and with an expression of perfect readiness to enter into conversation. all at once, in the mass of people's backs, there flashed before his eyes the back of a head which was familiar to him, smoothly clipped and flat as though chopped off—the nape of the neck belonging to the editor—dmítry pávlovitch istómin. gvózdeff smiled, when he remembered how he had ill-treated that man, and began to gaze with pleasure at dmítry pávlovitch's low-crowned, gray hat. now and then the editor's hat disappeared behind other hats, and, for some reason, this disquieted gvózdeff; he raised himself on tiptoe, to catch sight of it, and when he found it, he smiled again.

thus, following the editor, he walked along, and recalled the time when he, gvózdeff, had been nikólka the locksmith, and the editor—was mítka,[4] the deacon's son. they had had another comrade, míshka,[5] whom they had nicknamed the sugar-bowl. there had also been váska[6] zhúkoff, the son of an official, from the last house in the[pg 309] street. it was a nice house,—old, all overgrown with moss, all stuck around with additions. váska's father had a very fine flock of pigeons. the courtyard of the house was a fine place in which to play at hide-and-seek, because váska's father was miserly, and saved up in his yard all sorts of rubbish—broken carriages, and casks, and boxes. now váska was a physician, in the country, and on the site of the old house stood railway freight-houses.... they had had other chums—all little boys of from eight to ten years of age. they had all resided on the outskirts of the town, in back damp street, had lived on friendly terms with each other, and in constant hostility with the horrid little boys of the other streets. they had devastated gardens and vegetable patches, they had played at knuckle-bones, at tip-cat, and other games, and had studied in the parish school.... twenty-five years had elapsed since that time.

[4] mítka—colloquial diminutive for dmítry.—translator.

[5] míshka—colloquial diminutive for mikhá?l.—translator.

[6] váska—colloquial diminutive for vasíly.—translator.

time had been—and passed, the little boys had been as saucy and grimy-faced as nikólka the locksmith,—and now they had become persons of importance. but nikólka the locksmith had stuck fast in back damp street. they, when they had finished the parish school, had got into the gymnasium,—he had not got in.... and how would it do if he were to address the editor? say good-afternoon, and enter into conversation? he might begin by begging pardon for the row, and then talk—so, about life in general.

the editor's hat kept flitting in front of gvózdeff's eyes, as though alluring him to itself, and gvózdeff made up his mind. just at that moment, the editor was walking alone, in a free space, which had formed in the crowd. he was stepping along with his thin legs in their light trousers, his head kept turning from side to side, his short-sighted[pg 310] eyes were screwed up, as he scanned the public. gvózdeff came almost alongside of him, gazed askance at his face in an amiable way, awaiting a favorable moment, in order to wish him a good-afternoon, and, at the same time, experiencing a keen desire to know how the editor would bear himself toward him.

"good-afternoon, mítry pávlovitch!"

the editor turned toward him, with one hand raised his hat, with the other adjusted the eyeglasses on his nose, surveyed gvózdeff, and scowled.

but this did not daunt nikolá? gvózdeff,—on the contrary, he leaned toward the editor, in the most agreeable way possible, and flooding him with the odor of vódka, he inquired:

"are you taking a stroll?"

for a second, the editor halted; his lips and nostrils quivered scornfully, and he nodded curtly at gvózdeff:

"what do you want?"

"i? nothing! i just thought ... it's fine weather to-day! and i'm very anxious to have a talk with you about that occurrence."

"i don't wish to talk about anything with you!"—declared the editor, hastening his steps.

gvózdeff did the same.

"you don't wish to? i understand.. you are right—i understand that very well indeed.... as i put you to confusion, of course, you must have a grudge against me...."

"you, simply ... you're drunk...." the editor halted once more.—"and if you don't leave me in peace, i'll summon the police."

gvózdeff smiled affectionately.

"well, why?"

[pg 311]

the editor looked askance at him, with the anxious glance of a man who has fallen into an unpleasant position, and does not know how to extricate himself from it. the public were already staring at them with curiosity. several persons pricked up their ears, scenting an approaching row. istómin cast a helpless glance around him.

gvózdeff observed it.

"let's turn aside,"—said he, and, without awaiting the other's consent, with his shoulder he dexterously thrust istómin to one side, away from the broad avenue, into a narrow path, which descended the hill between the bushes. the editor made no protest against this manoeuvre,—perhaps because he had no time, perhaps because, away from the public, entirely alone, he hoped to rid himself more promptly and simply of his companion. he walked quietly down the path, cautiously planting his cane on the ground, and gvózdeff followed him, and breathed on his hat.

"there's a fallen tree not far from here, we'll sit on that.... don't be angry with me, mítry pávlovitch, for this conduct of mine. excuse me! for i did it out of anger.... anger sometimes torments fellows like me to such a degree that you can't extinguish it with liquor.... well, and at such times, one gets insolent to somebody: he strikes a passer-by in the snout, or does something else.... i don't repent, what's done is done; but, perhaps, i understand very well indeed, that i didn't keep within bounds that time ... i went too far...."

whether this sincere explanation touched the editor, or whether gvózdeff's personality aroused his curiosity, or whether he comprehended that he could not get rid of this man, at all events, he asked gvózdeff:

"what is it that you want to talk about?"

[pg 312]

"why ... about everything! my soul is afflicted within me, because i feel that i'm an offence to myself.... here, let's sit down."

"i have no time...."

"i know ... the newspaper! it's eating up half your life, you're squandering all your health on it.... you see, i understand! what's he, the publisher? he has put his money into the paper, but you have put your blood!. you have already written your eyes out.... sit down!"

along the path, in front of them, lay a large stump—the half-decayed remains of what had once been a mighty oak. the branches of a hazel-bush bent over the tree, forming a green tent; athwart the branches gleamed the sky, already arrayed in the hues of sunset; the spicy odor of fresh foliage filled the air. gvózdeff seated himself, and turning to the editor, who still continued to stand, gazing about him with indecision, he began again:

"i have been drinking a little to-day ... i find life tiresome, mítry pávlovitch! i've lagged behind my comrades, the workingmen; somehow, my thoughts take an entirely different direction. i caught sight of you to-day, and remembered that you used to be a chum of mine, you know ... ha, ha!"

he laughed, because the editor looked at him with a swift change of expression on his face, which rendered him really ridiculous.

"a chum? when?"

"long ago, mítry pávlovitch.... we used to live in back damp street then ... do you remember? we lived across the courtyard from each other. and opposite us míshka the sugar-bowl—at the present time, mikhá?l efímovitch khruléff, the examining magistrate,[pg 313]—deigned to have his residence with his stem papa.... do you remember efímitch? he used to shake you and me by our top-knots.... come, sit down, do."

the editor nodded his head affirmatively, and seated himself by the side of gvózdeff. he regarded him with the intense gaze of a man who is recalling to mind something that took place long ago, and has been entirely forgotten, and he rubbed his forehead.

but gvózdeff was carried away by his memories.

"what a life we led then! and why can't a man remain a child all his life long? he grows up ... why? then he grows into the earth. all his life long he endures divers misfortunes ... he becomes irritated, savage ... nonsense! he lives, he lives and—at the end of his life, there's nothing to show but trash.... a coffin ... and nothing more.... but we used to live on then without any dark thoughts, merrily,—like little birds—that's all that can be said of it! we flew over the fences after the fruits of other people's labors.... do you remember, one day, in mrs. petróvsky's vegetable-patch, on a thieving expedition, i stuffed a cucumber up your nose? you set up a yell, and i—took to my heels.... you came with your mamma to my father, to complain, and my father whipped me in proper style.... but míshka—mikhá?l efímovitch...."

the editor listened, and against his will he smiled. he wished to preserve his seriousness and dignity in the presence of this man who had evinced an inclination to be familiar. but in these stories of the bright days of childhood there was something touching, and in gvózdeff's tone, so far, the notes which menaced dmítry pávlovitch's vanity did not ring out with especial sharpness. and[pg 314] everything round about was delightful. somewhere up above, shuffled the feet of the promenading public on the sands of the paths, their voices were barely audible, and once in a while a laugh resounded; but the breeze was sighing,—and all those faint sounds were drowned in the melancholy rustling of the foliage. and when the rustling died away, there ensued moments of complete silence, as though everything round about were lending an attentive ear to the words of nikolá? gvózdeff, as he confusedly related the story of his youth....

"do you remember várka, the daughter of kolokóltzoff the house-painter? she's married now to shapóshnikoff the printer. such a fine lady ... it scares one to pass her.... she was a sickly little lass in those days.... do you remember, how she disappeared one day, and all we boys, from the whole street, searched the fields and ravines for her? we found her in the camp and led her home through the plain.... there was an awful uproar! kolokóltzoff treated us to gingerbread, and várka, when she saw her mother, said: 'i've been with the well-born wife of an officer, and she wants me to be her daughter!' he, he!... her daughter!... she was a splendid little girl!..."

from the river were wafted certain sounds, as though someone's mighty, grief-laden breast were moaning. a steamer was passing, and in the air floated the tumult of the water, churned up by its wheels. the sky was rose-colored, but around gvózdeff and the editor the twilight was thickening.... the spring night drew gradually on. the silence became complete, profound, and gvózdeff lowered his voice, as though yielding to its influence.... the editor listened to him mutely, calling up in his mind pictures of the distant past. all this had been [pg 315] .... and all this had been better than what was now. only in childhood is a free soul, which does not notice the weight of the chains that are called the conditions of life, possible. childhood knows not the sharp inflammations of conscience, knows no other falsehood save the harmless falsehood of the child. how much is unknown in the days of childhood, and how good is that ignorance! one lives ... and gradually the comprehension of life is enlarged ... why is it enlarged, if one dies, without having understood anything?

"so you see, mítry pávlovitch, it turns out, that you and i are birds from one and the same nest ... yes! but our flights are different.... and when i recollect, that surely all the difference between me and my former comrades lies in the fact that i did not sit in the gymnasium over my books,—i feel bitter and disgusted.... does that constitute a man? a man consists of his soul, of his relations to his neighbor, as it is said.... well, then,—you are my neighbor, and what value do i possess for you? none whatever!—isn't that so?"

the editor, enticed away by his own thoughts, must have misunderstood his companion's question.

"it is!"—he said, in a sincere, abstracted tone. but gvózdeff burst out laughing, and he caught himself up:

"that is to say, excuse me? what, precisely, are you asking about?"

"isn't it true that to you i'm—an empty spot.... whether i exist or not is all one to you—you don't care a fig.... what is my soul to you? i live alone in the world, and all the people who know me are very tired of me. because, i have an evil character, and i'm very fond of playing all sorts of practical jokes. but, you see,[pg 316] i have feeling and brains too ... i feel offence in my position. in what way am i worse than you? only in my occupation...."

"ye-es ... that is sad!" said the editor, contracting his brow, then he paused, and resumed, in a rather soothing tone:—"but, you see, another point of view must be applied to the case...."

"mítry pávlovitch! why a point of view? one man should not pay attention to another man according to the point of view, but according to the impulse of the heart! what's that point of view? is it possible to cast me aside because of some point of view or other? but i am cast aside in life—i make no headway in it.... why? because i'm not learned? but surely, if you learned folks would not judge from a point of view, but in some other way,—you ought not to forget me, a berry from the same field as yourselves, but draw me up toward you from below, where i rot in ignorance and exasperation of my feelings? or—from the point of view—oughtn't you to do it?"

gvózdeff screwed up his eyes, and gazed triumphantly into the face of his companion. he felt that he was showing himself to the best advantage, and emitted all his philosophy, which he had thought out during the long years of his laborious, unsystematic, and sterile life. the editor was disconcerted by his companion's attack, and tried simultaneously to decide—what sort of a man this was, and what reply he ought to make to his speech. but gvózdeff, intoxicated with himself, continued:

"you clever people will give me a hundred answers, and the sum total of them will be—no, you ought not! but i say—you ought! why? because i and you folks are from one street and from one origin.... you[pg 317] are not the real lords of life ... you're not noblemen.... from them, fellows of my sort have nothing to gain. those men would say: 6 go to the devil'—and you'd go. because—they're aristocrats from ancient times, but you're only aristocrats because you know grammar, and that sort of thing.... but you—are my equal, and i can demand from you information about my path in life. i'm of the petty burgher class, and so is khruléff, and you ... are a deacon's son...."

"but, permit me ..." said the editor beseechingly, "am i denying your right to demand?"

but gvózdeff was not in the least interested to know what the editor denied or what he admitted; he wanted to have his say, and he felt himself, at that moment, capable of expressing everything which had ever agitated him....

"now, you will be pleased to permit me!"—he said, in a mysterious sort of whisper, bending closer to the editor, and flashing his excited eyes.—"do you think it's easy for me to toil now for my comrades, to whom, in days gone by, i used to give bloody noses? is it easy for me to receive forty kopéks as a tip from examining-magistrate khruléff, for whom i put in a water-closet a year ago? surely, he's a man of the same rank as myself.... and his name was míshka the sugar-bowl ... he has rotten teeth now, just as he had then...."

a heavy, choking lump rose in his throat: he paused for a moment, and burst out swearing—with such loud and repulsively-cynical oaths that the editor shuddered, and moved away from him. when he had got through, swearing, gvózdeff seemed to weaken, as though the fire within him had died out. he listened to himself, and no longer felt conscious of anything within him which he wished to say.

[pg 318]

"that's all!"—he ejaculated dully.

he had suddenly become inwardly empty, and this sensation of emptiness produced irritation in him.

the editor gazed askance at him in a thoughtful way, and silently considered—what should he say to this young fellow? he must say something nice, just, and sincere. but dmítry pávlovitch istómin found nothing of what was required in his head, at the given moment, nor in his heart. for a long time past, all ideal and high-flown discussions of "questions" had evoked in him a feeling of boredom and exhaustion. he had come out to-day to rest, he had purposely avoided meeting his acquaintances,—and all of a sudden, here was this man with his harangues. of course, there was a modicum of truth in his harangues, as there is in everything which people say. they were curious, and might serve as a very interesting theme for a feuilleton.... but, nevertheless, he must say something to him.

"everything you have said—is not new, you know,"—he began....—"the injustice of man's relations to man, has long been a topic of discussion.... but, really, these speeches of yours do present one novelty—in the sense, that they were formerly uttered by people of another sort.... you formulate your thoughts in a somewhat one-sided and inaccurate manner...."

"there's your point of view again!"—laughed gvózdeff faintly.—"ekh-ma, gentlemen, gentlemen! you are endowed with brains, but as to heart evidently ... tell me something which will suit my complaint on the spot ... so there, now!"

having spoken thus, he hung his head, and awaited the answer. sadness had seized upon him.

again istómin glanced at him, with frowning brow, and[pg 319] conscious of a strong desire to get away. it seemed to him that gvózdeff was drunk, and for that reason had weakened after his excited speeches. he looked at the white cap, which had fallen on the nape of gvózdeff's neck, at his pock-marked face and aggressive top-knot; with a glance he measured his whole powerful, sinewy figure, and thought to himself, that this was a very typical workingman, and if....

"well, what is it?"—inquired gvózdeff.

"but what can i say to you? to speak frankly, i do not perceive at all clearly, what you wish to hear."

"there, that's it exactly!... you can't make me any answer!"—grinned gvózdeff.

the editor heaved a sigh of relief, justly assuming that the conversation was at an end, and that gvózdeff would assault him with no further questions.... and all at once he thought:

"and what if he beats me? he's so vicious!"

he recalled the expression of gvózdeff's face yonder, in the editorial room, during that stupid scene. and he cast a furtive glance of suspicion at him.

it was already dark. the silence was broken by the sounds of songs, wafted from afar on the river. people were singing in chorus, and the tenor voices were very distinctly audible. large beetles hurtled through the air with a metallic ring. through the foliage of the trees the stars were visible ... now and then, one branch or another over their heads began to quiver, for some reason, and the soft trembling of the leaves made itself heard.

"there will be dew...." said the editor, cautiously. gvózdeff shuddered, and turned toward him.

"what did you say?"

"there will be dew, i say; it's harmful...."

[pg 320]

"a-ah!"

they fell silent. on the river resounded the shout: "háy-e?! ba-a-arge a-ho-oo-oy!"

"i think i shall go. farewell for the present." "and shan't we have a drink of beer together?"—suggested gvózdeff suddenly, and added, with a grin:—"do me the honor!"

"no, excuse me, i cannot just now. and then, it's time for me to be going, you know...."

gvózdeff rose from the tree, and stared sullenly at the editor.

the latter, rising also, offered him his hand. "so you don't want to have a drink of beer with me? well, devil take you!"—gvózdeff cut the interview short, slapping his cap in place with a harsh gesture.—"aristocracy! at two kopéks the pair! i'll get drunk by myself...."

the editor bravely turned his back on his companion, and walked up the path, without uttering a word. as he passed gvózdeff, he drew his head down strangely between his shoulders, as though afraid of hitting it against something. gvózdeff descended the hill with huge strides. from the river resounded a cracked voice:

"ba-a-arge a-ho-oy! de-e-evils!... send off a bo-o-o-oat!"

and among the trees rang the faint echo:

"o-o-oat!"