The prank, p.4
The Prank, page 4
“Hello,” he said, walking in jauntily and clicking his heels. The teacher was taken aback. His blushing wife darted into the next room at lightning speed.
“Excuse me,” began Papa with a little smile, “I may have, you know, disturbed you just now. I understand. How are you, sir? May I have the honor of introducing myself? Here’s my card. As you can see, I’m not just anyone. But a hard worker, like yourself.” He laughed loudly. “Not that there is anything for you to worry about, nothing at all.”
The teacher smiled ever so slightly, just to be polite, and pointed to the chair. Papa spun on his heels and took a seat.
“I came,” he continued, flashing his golden watch, “to have a talk with you, sir. Yes. You’ll have to forgive me, of course. I’m no speechifier. My kind, you know, speaks plainly and directly.” He laughed. “Did you attend university?”
“I did.”
“Right! My, it’s hot today. Ivan Fedorovich, you’ve given my boy a heap of Fs. Which is all right, you know. It’s according to one’s desserts. Yes . . . Tribute to whom tribute is due, and a lesson to whom a lesson is due.” He laughed. “Still, it’s unpleasant, you know. Do you mean to say that my son really doesn’t understand math?”
“How should I put it? It’s not that he doesn’t understand it as such, it’s, you see, well, he doesn’t study. So, no, he doesn’t understand.”
“And why not?”
The teacher raised his eyebrows. “What do you mean, why?” he said. “He doesn’t understand, and he doesn’t because he doesn’t study.”
“Begging your pardon, Ivan Fedorovich! My son studies endlessly. I myself help him study. He stays up all night. He knows everything perfectly. And as for his tomfoolery . . . Well, that’s youth for you. Who among us wasn’t young once? Am I disturbing you?”
“Why would you think that? No, not in the least. I’m even grateful to you for dropping in. Fathers so rarely visit us educators. Mind you, it shows you trust us, and trust is the key to everything.”
“Naturally. The main thing is not to interfere. So this means that my son won’t advance to fourth grade?”
“That’s right. After all, it’s not just in math that he received an F.”
“I could visit his other teachers too. But what about math? Can you take care of that?”
“I cannot, sir!” (The teacher smiled.) “I cannot! I wanted your son to advance to the next grade. I did my best, but your son won’t study and lacks all respect. He gets into trouble again and again.”
“Well, that’s youth for you. What’s to be done? In any case, you have to give him a passing grade.”
“I can’t!”
“Oh, come now, it’s nothing at all! What are you saying? As if I have no idea what can and can’t be done. Of course you can, Ivan Fedorovich!”
“I can’t! What will the other failing students say! It’s not fair, no matter how you look at it. No, I can’t!”
Papa gave him a wink. “You can, Ivan Fedorovich! Ivan Fedorovich! Let’s not go on and on telling stories. This is nothing to chitchat about for hours. You’re a well-educated sort, why don’t you go ahead and tell me what you consider fair? Because we both know what your fairness is all about.” He laughed. “Why not go straight to the point, Ivan Fedorovich, no beating about the bush. You had certain intentions when you gave him an F, right? What’s so fair about that?”
The teacher raised his eyebrows. That was all. Why he didn’t take offense will remain locked in the teacher’s heart forever, as far I am concerned.
“You had certain intentions,” Papa went on. “You expected a guest.” He laughed. “Right? And here I am! I agree. Tribute to whom tribute is due. I understand all about what it means to be in public service, as you can see. No matter how much you believe in progress, old ways are best. More effective. Well, what’s mine is yours!”
Breathing heavily, Papa reached for his wallet. A twenty-five-ruble bill was extended toward the teacher’s fist.
“Here you go!”
The teacher blushed and cringed. That was it. Why he didn’t show Papa the door will remain locked in the teacher’s heart, as far as I am concerned.
“Don’t be embarrassed,” Papa went on. “I understand. The ones who say they don’t take—they take. And who isn’t on the take, nowadays? It’s impossible not to take, my friend. Not used to it yet? Come on!”
“No, for God’s sake.”
“Not enough? Well, I can’t give you more than that. You’re not going to take it?”
“Good heavens!”
“As you wish. But that F has got to change. Not for my sake—for his mother’s. She’s crying, you know. Heart palpitations. All that.”
“I feel sorry for your wife, but I can’t.”
“And if my son doesn’t go on to the fourth grade, what then? No, you simply have to give him a passing grade!”
“I would have been happy to, but I can’t. Would you like a cigarette?”
“Un grand merci. What’s the harm in giving him a passing grade? What’s your rank, by the way?”
“Titular councillor. Though, by virtue of my position—the eighth rank.”*
“I see! Now the two of us are sure to hit it off. With just one stroke of the pen, eh? Agreed?” He laughed.
“I cannot, sir, for the life of me, I cannot!”
Papa fell silent for a bit, reflected, and then returned to the offensive. The attack dragged on and on. The teacher repeated his inexorable “I cannot, sir,” some twenty times. Finally, he was fed up. Papa was just impossible. Papa tried to give him a smooch, asked to take a math test himself, told dirty jokes, and got chummier and chummier. The teacher felt sick.
“Vanya, it’s time for you to go!” the teacher’s wife shouted from the other room. Papa saw what was up. With his broad short frame he blocked the escape path. The exhausted teacher started to whimper. Then he had a stroke of genius, or so he imagined.
“Look here,” he told Papa, “I’ll pass your son when all my other colleagues agree to pass him.”
“Word of honor?”
“Yes, I’ll pass him if they’ll pass him.”
“Agreed! Shake! You’ve got some class! I’ll let them know you’ve changed the grade. Deal! I owe you a bottle of champagne. When are they home?”
“Why don’t you try them now?”
“All right. And you and I will be friends, of course? Pop by one day for a nice visit!”
“With pleasure. All the best!”
“Au revoir!” Papa laughed. “Oh, young man, young man! Farewell! And of course I’ll extend your best regards to your esteemed colleagues! Please convey my most respectful aperçu to your spouse . . . Don’t forget to visit!”
Papa clicked his heels, put on his hat, and left.
“A good man,” thought the teacher, following Papa with his eyes. “A good man! What’s on his mind is on his tongue. Simple and kind, it’s plain to see . . . I like his sort.”
That very evening, Mama was once again sitting on Papa’s lap (the maid’s turn came later). Papa was assuring her that “our son” would go on to the next grade. Educated types, he said, don’t require money—just a pleasant manner and polite but relentless arm-twisting.
*Titular councillor was equivalent to the ninth-grade rank of the Russian Table of Ranks. Collegiate assessor was an eighth-grade rank (one higher than titular councillor).
ST. PETER’S DAY
AT LAST the morning of that long-awaited and long-dreamed-of day had come! Hurray, cry hunters everywhere! It was finally the twenty-ninth of June!* At last the day on which debts, bugbears, overpriced food, mothers-in-law, and even young wives are forgotten, the day on which you can thumb your nose twenty times over at the village police officer who forbids you from taking out your guns and shooting.
The stars grew pale and misty. Voices rang out here and there. Acrid blue-gray smoke billowed from the village chimneys. The drowsy sexton climbed into the gray belfry and rang the bell for Matins. Snoring issued from the night watchman lying sprawled under a tree. The finches woke up and started a ruckus, flying from one side of the garden to the other, breaking out with their tiresome, insufferable chirping. In the blackthorn shrubs, an oriole began to sing. Above the servants’ kitchen, starlings and hoopoes raised a fuss. The complimentary morning concert had begun.
Two troikas drove up to the house of Egor Egorovich Obtemperansky, a retired cornet of the guards, and came to a stop in front of his run-down porch, so picturesquely overgrown with stinging nettle. A mad rush erupted in the house and the yard. Every living thing on Egor Egorovich’s estate began to walk, run, and stomp about, in the barns and stables and on the staircases. One middle horse was exchanged for another. The coachmen’s caps flew off their heads; the footman, Katya’s main squeeze, got his nose bloodied so that it glowed like a red lantern; the women cooks were called “nasty pieces of work”; mention was made of Satan and his fallen angels. In five minutes, the traveling carriages were loaded with rugs, blankets, bags of food, and rifle cases.
“Ready, sir!” Avvakum bellowed.
“If you please, everyone! Everything’s ready!” Egor Egorovich announced in a treacly voice. A crowd of people spilled out onto the porch. The young doctor jumped into the traveling carriage first. Next came Kuzma Bolva, a lowly resident of the town of Arkhangelsk, an old man with yellowish-green spots on his neck, who crawled into the carriage in flat-soled boots and a discolored top hat, holding a twenty-five-pound double-barreled shotgun. Bolva was a commoner, but the gentry overlooked his status and brought him along out of the respect due to someone his age (he had been born at the close of the last century) and because he could shoot a twenty-kopeck coin in midair.
“If you please, Your Excellency,” said Egor Egorovich, turning to a short fat man with gray hair who was wearing a white military jacket with bright buttons and the Order of St. Anna around his neck. “Move over, doctor!” he added.
Supported by Egor Egorovich, the retired general grunted and hoisted his leg up onto the carriage step. With his stomach to the fore, he shoved the doctor aside and sat down heavily beside Bolva. The general’s pup, Futile, and Egor Egorovich’s pointer, Musician, hopped into the carriage after him.
“Say . . . look here, my dear . . . Vanya!” the general said to his nephew, a schoolboy with a long single-barreled gun slung behind his back. “You can sit right here, beside me. Come here! Yes—right here. Stop fooling around, my boy! You’ll frighten the horse.”
Blowing the last puff of tobacco smoke up the shaft horse’s nose, Vanya jumped into the traveling carriage, pushed Bolva aside, and fumbled around before settling in next to the general. Egor Egorovich crossed himself and took a seat by the doctor. Manzhe, the tall, lanky teacher of math and physics at Vanya’s school, perched on the coachbox beside Avvakum.
At last, the first carriage was full. Now it was time for the second carriage, and after lengthy argument and much running to and fro, the remaining eight men and three dogs all squeezed in.
“Ready!” Egor Egorovich shouted.
“Ready!” the guests shouted back.
“Well then . . . Should we get going, Your Excellency? God bless! Let’s go, Avvakum!”
The first carriage lurched into motion. The second carriage, containing the most avid hunters, creaked desperately, swerved about, and rolled toward the gates, overtaking the one in front. All the hunters smiled and clapped their hands in delight. They were in seventh heaven, until—cruel fate! A scandal broke out just as they were leaving the courtyard.
“Hold on! Wait up! Hold it!” a shrill tenor called out from behind the troikas.
The hunters looked at one another and blanched. Chasing after them was the world’s most insufferable man, a troublemaker known to the entire province, Egor Egorovich’s brother, Mikhei Egorovich, retired captain, second class. He was waving his arms frantically. The carriages stopped.
“Whatever is the matter?” asked Egor Egorovich.
Mikhei Egorovich ran up to the carriage, climbed onto the footboard, and raised his fist against his brother. All the hunters shouted.
“What is it?” asked Egor Egorovich, who had turned crimson.
“What it is,” shouted Mikhei Egorovich, “is that you are Judas, a beast, a swine! He’s a swine, Your Excellency! Why didn’t you wake me up? Why didn’t you wake me up, you jackass? I’m asking you, you scoundrel! If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen. I don’t . . .I just want to teach him a lesson! Why didn’t you wake me up? Didn’t want to take me along, did you? I’d be in your way? You got me drunk last night on purpose and you thought I’d sleep until noon! Aren’t you clever! With your permission, Your Excellency, I’ll just take one swipe at him. With your permission—”
“Stop shoving!” shouted the general, spreading out his arms. “Can’t you see there’s no space? You’re taking liberties, you know!”
“No need to get angry, Mikhei,” said Egor Egorovich. “I didn’t wake you up because there’s just no point in your coming. You can’t even shoot a gun. So why come? To get in the way? After all, you can’t even shoot!”
“I can’t—I can’t shoot?” Mikhei Egorovich screeched so loudly that even Bolva clapped his hands to his ears. “Well, in that case, why the hell is the doctor coming? He can’t shoot either! Does he shoot any better than I do?”
“He’s right, gentlemen!” said the doctor. “I can’t shoot and I don’t even know how to hold a rifle. I hate hunting. Why are you bringing me along? What the hell is the point? He can take my place! I’m staying! Sit here, Mikhei Egorovich!”
“Hear that? Hear that? Why are you taking him then?”
The doctor stood up in order to get out of the carriage. Egor Egorovich grabbed his coattails and yanked him down.
“Hey! Don’t tear my coat! It cost me thirty rubles. Let go! Gentlemen, please spare me your company today. I’m in a bad mood and that could lead to all kinds of trouble. Let go, Egor Egorovich. Take my spot, Mikhei Egorovoch! I’m going back to sleep!”
“But you have to come, doctor!” said Egor Egorovich, not letting go of his coattails. “You gave me your word of honor you’d come!”
“You dragged it out of me. Why on earth should I come?”
“That way you won’t stay behind with his wife,” Mikhei Egorovich squealed. “That’s it! He’s jealous, doctor! Don’t go! Don’t go, just to spite him! He’s jealous, by God, he’s jealous!”
Egor Egorovich turned bright red. He clenched his fists.
A shout came from the other carriage. “Hey, Mikhei Egorovich, enough nonsense! Come here, we’ve got room for you!”
Mikhei Egorovich smiled mockingly.
“Did you hear that, you shark?” he said. “Who’s on top now? Did you hear that? They’ve got room! I’ll go just to spite you! I’ll go and I’ll get in the way. The hell you’ll bag anything with me around! And you, doctor, don’t go! Let him burst with jealousy!”
Egor Egorovich climbed to his feet. He stood there shaking his fists. His eyes were bloodshot.
“Scoundrel!” he shouted. “You are no brother of mine! Not for nothing did our late lamented mother curse you! Your depraved behavior killed our father in his prime!”
“Gentlemen,” the general broke in. “That’s enough, I should think. You’re brothers. Kith and kin!”
“He’s kith and kin to an ass, Your Excellency, not to me!” Mikhei Egorovich retorted. “Don’t go, doctor! Don’t go!”
“Let’s go, damn you all. What the hell’s going on here! Go! Go!” yelled the general and thwacked Avvakum in the back with his fist. “Go!”
Avvakum whipped the horses and the troika set off. In the second carriage, Captain Kardamonov, the writer, settled the two dogs on his lap. Fierce Mikhei Egorovich took their place.
“Lucky for him there’s room!” said Mikhei Egorovich, “or I would have . . . Why don’t you write about that scoundrel in the papers, Kardamonov?”
The year before, Kardamonov had submitted an article entitled “An Interesting Case of Fecundity in the Peasant Population” to Niva magazine. The article was declined and as was customary the editor published his response—hardly flattering to Kardamonov’s amour propre—in the letters section. Kardamonov had complained to his neighbors, and was now known as the writer.
The hunters had planned to begin their day by hunting quail in the peasants’ hayfields, seven versts from Egor Egorovich’s estate. Upon arrival, they climbed out of the carriages and broke into two groups. One, headed by the general and Egor Egorovich, went right. The second group, led by Kardamonov, went left. Bolva lingered behind on his own. He liked to hunt in peace and quiet. Musician ran ahead barking; within minutes, he raised a quail. Vanya shot and missed.
“I aimed too high, damn it!” he muttered.
Futile the pup, who’d been brought along to “get used to things,” heard the first gunshot of his life and ran yelping back to the carriages, tail between his legs. Manzhe shot at a lark and bagged it.
“Now that’s some bird!” he said, showing the lark to the doctor.
“Go away,” the doctor said. “Don’t speak to me. I’m out of sorts. Leave me alone!”
“You’re a skeptic, doctor.”
“Really? And what does ‘skeptic’ mean?”
Manzhe reflected. “A people . . . a people . . . non-lover.”
“Baloney! Don’t use words that you don’t understand. Just leave me alone! I’m out of sorts. That could mean trouble.”
Musician pointed. Both the general and Egor Egorovich turned pale and held their breath.
“My shot,” the general whispered. “Mine . . . Mine . . . if you please! It’s your turn next . . .”
But Musician’s pointing proved pointless. The bored doctor tossed a pebble at Musician and dinged the dog between the ears. Yelping, Musician leapt into the air. The general and Egor Egorovich turned around. There was a rustle in the grass and a large bustard flew out. A shout came from the second group of hunters. The general, Manzhe, and Vanya took aim at the bustard. Vanya shot. Manzhe’s rifle misfired . . . The bustard flew over a mound and disappeared into the rye field.
