Iona falls silent for a while, then goes on:
“So it is, my little mare…Kuzma Ionych is no more…Gave up the ghost…Just died for nothing…Now, suppose you have a little colt, and you’re that little colt’s own mother…And suddenly suppose that same little colt gives up the ghost…It’s sad, isn’t it?”
The nag chews, listens, and breathes on her master’s hands…
Iona gets carried away and tells her everything…
1886
A COMMOTION
AFTER A STROLL, Mashenka Pavletskaya, a girl who had just finished her courses at boarding school, came back to the Kushkins’ house, where she lived as a governess, to find an extraordinary commotion. The porter Mikhailo, who opened the door for her, was agitated and red as a lobster.
Noise came from upstairs.
“The mistress is probably having a fit…,” thought Mashenka, “or she’s quarreled with her husband…”
In the front hall and in the corridor she met housemaids. One of the maids was weeping. Then Mashenka saw the master himself, Nikolai Sergeich, a short man, not yet old, with a flabby face and a big bald spot, come running out of her room. He was red in the face. His body was twitching…He passed by the governess without noticing her, and, raising his arms, exclaimed:
“Oh, how terrible this is! How tactless! How stupid! Wild! Disgusting!”
Mashenka went into her room, and here for the first time in her life she experienced in all its keenness that feeling so familiar to dependent, uncomplaining people who live by the bread of the rich and well-born. In her room a search was going on. The mistress, Fedosya Vassilyevna, a buxom, broad-shouldered lady with bushy black eyebrows, bareheaded and angular, with a scarcely noticeable little moustache and red hands, in face and manners more resembling a simple kitchen maid, was standing by the governess’s desk, putting balls of yarn, scraps of cloth and paper, back into her work bag…Obviously the governess’s appearance was unexpected, because, turning and seeing her pale, astonished face, the mistress became slightly embarrassed and murmured:
“Pardon, I…I accidentally spilled…caught it on my sleeve…”
And saying something more, Madame Kushkin rustled her train and left. Mashenka cast an astonished glance around her room and, understanding nothing, having no idea what to think, hunched her shoulders and went cold with fear…What had Fedosya Vassilyevna been looking for in her bag? If indeed, as she said, she had caught it on her sleeve and spilled things, why then had Nikolai Sergeich come running out of the room so red-faced and agitated? Why was one of the desk drawers pulled slightly open? The piggy bank, in which the governess put small change and old stamps, had been unlocked. But whoever had unlocked it had not managed to lock it again and had only left scratches around the lock. The bookshelf, the desktop, the bed—everything bore fresh traces of a search. The linen basket, too. The linen was neatly folded, but not in the order Mashenka had left it in when she went out for her stroll. It meant the search had been a real one, quite real, but why, for what? What had happened? Mashenka recalled the porter’s agitation, the commotion that was still going on, the weeping maid; did it all have to do with the just-performed search? Was she mixed up in something terrible? Mashenka turned pale and, cold all over, sank onto the linen basket.
A maid came into the room.
“Liza, do you know why they…searched me?” asked the governess.
“The lady’s two-thousand-rouble brooch has disappeared…,” said Liza.
“Yes, but why search me?”
“Everybody got searched, miss. They searched me all over…They stripped us all naked and searched us…And me, miss, I swear to God…Never mind the lady’s brooch, I never even went near her dressing table. I’ll say the same to the police.”
“But…why search me?” the governess went on in perplexity.
“I’m telling you, the brooch got stolen…The lady went through everything with her own hands. She even searched the porter Mikhailo. A real shame! Nikolai Sergeich just stares and clucks like a hen. And you’re trembling for nothing, miss. She didn’t find anything in your room. Since you didn’t take the brooch, you’ve got nothing to be afraid of.”
“But it’s mean, Liza…it’s insulting!” said Mashenka, choking with indignation. “It’s vile, base! What right does she have to suspect me and rummage through my things?”
“You live among strangers, miss,” sighed Liza. “You’re from gentlefolk, but all the same…it’s as if you’re a servant…It’s not like living with papa and mama…”
Mashenka collapsed on her bed and wept bitterly. Never before had she been so violated, never before had she been so deeply insulted as now…She, a well-brought-up, sensitive girl, a teacher’s daughter, had been suspected of theft, had been searched like a streetwalker! It seemed impossible to think up a worse insult. And to this feeling of offense was added an oppressive fear: what now?! All sorts of absurdities filled her head. If it was possible to suspect her of theft, it meant she could now be arrested, stripped naked and searched, then led down the street under guard, put in a dark, cold cell with mice and woodlice, exactly like the one in which Princess Tarakanova1 was confined. Who will stand up for her? Her parents live far away in the provinces; they have no money to come to her. She is alone in the capital, as in an empty field, with no relations or acquaintances. They can do whatever they like with her.
“I’ll run to all the judges and defense attorneys…,” Mashenka thought, trembling. “I’ll explain to them, swear an oath…They’ll believe that I couldn’t be a thief!”
Mashenka remembered that in the basket under the linen were some sweets, which, by an old boarding-school habit, she had put in her pocket at dinnertime and brought to her room. The thought that this little secret was now known to the masters threw her into a fever, she felt ashamed, and from all of it together—fear, shame, and offense—her heart began to beat hard, so that she felt it in her temples, her hands, the pit of her stomach.
“Come and eat, please!” they called Mashenka.
“Shall I go or not?”
Mashenka straightened her hair, wiped her face with a wet towel, and went to the dining room. There the dinner had already begun…At one end of the table sat Fedosya Vassilyevna, pompous, with a stupid, serious face; at the other—Nikolai Sergeich. On the sides sat the guests and the children. Dinner was served by two lackeys in tailcoats and white gloves. Everyone knew that there was commotion in the house, that the mistress was in grief, and they kept silent. All that could be heard was chewing and the clink of spoons against plates.
The mistress herself started the conversation.
“What do we have for the third course?” she asked the lackey in a soulful, suffering voice.
“Esturgeon à la Russe!”2 the lackey replied.
“I ordered it, Fenya…,” Nikolai Sergeich hastily put in. “I felt like having fish. If you don’t like it, ma chère, let them not serve it. I did it just…by the way…”
Fedosya Vassilyevna disliked food that she did not order herself, and now her eyes filled with tears.
“Well, let’s not get upset,” Mamikov, her personal physician, said in a sweet voice, touching her hand slightly and smiling just as sweetly. “We’re nervous enough without that. Let’s forget about the brooch! Good health is worth more than two thousand!”
“I’m not sorry about the two thousand!” the mistress replied, and a big tear rolled down her cheek. “I’m shocked by the fact itself! I will not suffer thieves in my house. I’m not sorry, not sorry about anything, but to steal from me—it’s such ingratitude! That’s how they repay me for my kindness…”