‘Well then, do you suppose I decided there and then that what I had seen was something evil? Not at all. “If it was carried out with such conviction and everyone involved recognized that it was necessary, then they must certainly have known something I did not know,” I thought to myself, and I tried to discover what it was. But however much I tried, discover it I could not. And since I was unable to discover it, I was unable to go into the army as I had earlier intended, and not only did I not serve in the army, but I did not enter government service of any kind, and as you see, I ended up not doing anything very much.’
‘Well, we know about that, how you ended up not doing anything much,’ said one of us. ‘But just tell us this: how many men would end up the same way if there were not men like you to give them the example?’
‘Now that is plain nonsense,’ said Ivan Vasilyevich with genuine irritation.
‘Well, and what happened about that love of yours?’ we all wanted to know.
‘My love? From that day on my love went into a decline. Whenever she fell into a pensive mood, as she frequently did, with that smile on her face, I would immediately remember the Colonel on the square, and I would feel somehow awkward and sickened, so I began to see her less often. And so my love for her gradually dwindled away to nothing. That is how it just is with some affairs, and it is things like that which can alter the whole direction of a man’s life. But you say …’ he concluded.
THE FORGED COUPON
Part One
I
FYODOR MIKHAILOVICH SMOKOVNIKOV, the head of a government department, a man of incorruptible integrity and proud of it, a liberal of a gloomy cast of mind, and not only a free-thinker but a hater of any and every manifestation of religious feeling, which he regarded as a relic of primitive superstition, had returned home from his department in an extremely vexed state of mind. The governor had sent him an utterly stupid memorandum from which it could have been inferred that Fyodor Mikhailovich had acted dishonestly. Fyodor Mikhailovich, furious at the suggestion, had lost no time in composing a biting and caustic reply.
Having got home, Fyodor Mikhailovich had the feeling that everything was happening to thwart him.
It was five minutes to five. He was expecting dinner to be served at once, but the dinner was not ready. Fyodor Mikhailovich banged the door and went off to his study. Someone knocked at the door. ‘Who the devil is it now?’ he thought, and called out:
‘Who is it now?’
Into the room came Fyodor Mikhailovich’s fifteen-year-old son, a grammar-school boy in the fifth year.
‘What brings you here?’
‘It’s the first of the month today.’
‘So, is it money you’re after?’
By an established agreement, on the first day of each month the father gave his son an allowance of three roubles to spend on hobbies and amusements. Fyodor Mikhailovich frowned, reached for his wallet and fished out from it a two-and-a-half-rouble bond coupon,1 then got out the purse in which he kept his small change and counted out a further fifty copecks. His son remained silent and did not take the money.
‘Please, Papa, can you let me have an advance?’
‘What?’
‘I wouldn’t ask you, but I borrowed some money on my word of honour, I promised to pay it back. As a man of honour I can’t just … I only need another three roubles, honestly. I won’t ask you … at least, I don’t mean I won’t ask you, it’s simply that … Please, Papa.’
‘You have already been told that –’
‘Yes, Papa, I know, but it’s just for this once, really …’
‘You receive an allowance of three roubles, and it is always too little. When I was your age I didn’t even get fifty copecks.’
‘But all my friends get more than I do now. Petrov and Ivanitsky actually have fifty roubles a month.’
‘And I tell you that if that is the way you are going to behave, then you will end up as a swindler. That is all I have to say on the matter.’
‘And what if it is? You’ll never look at things from my point of view: it means I shall have to look like an absolute cad. It’s all very well for you.’
‘Get out of here, you good-for-nothing, get out!’
Fyodor Mikhailovich jumped up from his chair and rushed at his son.
‘Get out. What you need is a good hiding.’
His son was both frightened and bitterly resentful, but his resentment outweighed his fear, and bowing his head he made hurriedly for the door. Fyodor Mikhailovich had no intention of hitting him, but he was enjoying his own anger and he continued shouting and cursing at his son as the latter made his retreat.
When the maid came to say that the dinner was ready to serve, Fyodor Mikhailovich stood up.
‘At last,’ he said. ‘I’ve quite lost my appetite now.’ And he walked scowling into the dining-room.
At the dinner table his wife struck up a conversation but his growled reply was so curt and irritable that she fell silent. His son too did not look up from his plate and said nothing. They ate their meal in silence, then silently got up from the table and went their separate ways.
