Once, at the beginning of June, Laptev and Pochatkin went to Bubnov’s tavern to have lunch and, incidentally, to discuss business. Pochatkin had worked for the Laptevs a long time, and had entered the firm when he was only eight years old. He was their own man, was trusted completely, and when, on leaving the warehouse, he took all the day’s earnings from the cash box and stuffed them in his pockets, it did not arouse any suspicion. He was the chief in the warehouse and at home, and also in church, where he fulfilled the duties of the warden in place of the old man. For his cruel treatment of his subordinates, the salesclerks and boys had nicknamed him Malyuta Skuratov.29
When they came to the tavern, he nodded to the waiter and said:
‘‘Well, brother, bring us a half-wonder and twenty-four objectionables.’’
A little later, the waiter brought a tray with a half-bottle of vodka and several plates of various snacks.
‘‘See here, my man,’’ Pochatkin said to him, ‘‘give us a helping of the past master of slander and malignity, with mashed potatoes.’’
The waiter did not understand and became confused and wanted to say something, but Pochatkin looked at him sternly and said:
‘‘Except!’’
The waiter thought with great effort, then went to consult his colleagues, and in the end figured it out and brought a helping of tongue. When they had drunk two glasses each and had some snacks, Laptev said:
‘‘Tell me, Ivan Vassilyich, is it true that our business has begun to fall off in the last few years?’’
‘‘By no means.’’
‘‘Tell me frankly, candidly, how much we’ve been earning, how much we’re earning now, and how great our fortune is. It’s simply impossible to walk in the dark. We recently had an accounting done at the warehouse, but, forgive me, I don’t believe this accounting; you find it necessary to conceal something from me and tell the truth only to my father. From early on, you’ve been accustomed to playing politics, and you can no longer do without it. But what use is it? Well, then, I beg you, be frank. What is the state of our business?’’
‘‘It all depends on the undulations of credit,’’ Pochatkin said after some reflection.
‘‘What do you mean by the undulations of credit?’’
Pochatkin started to explain, but Laptev did not understand anything and sent for Makeichev. The man came at once, said a prayer, had a bite to eat, and, in his sedate, dense baritone, began by saying that salesclerks were obliged to pray to God day and night for their benefactors.
‘‘Splendid, only allow me not to consider myself your benefactor,’’ said Laptev.
‘‘Every man should remember what he is and sense his rank. You, by God’s mercy, are our father and benefactor, and we are your slaves.’’
‘‘I’m sick of all this, finally!’’ Laptev became angry. ‘‘Please be my benefactor now, explain to me the state of our business. Kindly do not consider me a boy, otherwise I’ll close the warehouse tomorrow. Father has gone blind, my brother’s in the madhouse, my nieces are still young; I hate this business and would gladly walk out, but there’s nobody to replace me, you know that yourselves. For God’s sake, then, drop the politics!’’
They went to the warehouse to do the accounts. Then they did accounts at home in the evening, and the old man himself helped; initiating his son into his commercial secrets, he spoke in such a tone as if he was occupied not with trade but with sorcery. It turned out that the income increased by approximately a tenth yearly, and that the Laptevs’ fortune, counting only money and securities, equaled six million roubles.
When, past midnight, after the accounting, Laptev went out into the fresh air, he felt himself under the charm of those numbers. The night was still, moonlit, stifling; the white walls of the houses across the river, the sight of the heavy, locked gates, the silence, and the black shadows produced the general impression of some sort of fortress, and the only thing lacking was a sentry with a gun. Laptev went to the little garden and sat on a bench by the fence that separated it from the next yard, where there was also a little garden. The bird cherry was in bloom. Laptev remembered that in the time of his childhood, this bird cherry was just as gnarled and just as tall, and had not changed in the least since then. Every little corner of the garden and yard reminded him of the distant past. And in his childhood, just as now, one could see, through the sparse trees, the whole yard flooded with moonlight, the shadows were just as mysterious and severe, the black dog lay in just the same way in the middle of the yard, and the windows of the salesclerks’ lodgings were open wide. And these were all cheerless memories.
Light footsteps were heard behind the fence in the neighboring yard.
‘‘My dearest, my darling...’ a man’s voice whispered just by the fence, so that Laptev could even hear breathing.
Now they kissed... Laptev was sure that the millions and the business, which he had no heart for, would ruin his life and turn him finally into a slave; he imagined how he would gradually become accustomed to his position, would gradually enter into the role of head of a trading firm, would grow dull, old, and finally die, as average people generally die, squalidly, sourly, boring everyone around him. But what prevented him from abandoning both the millions and the business, and leaving this little garden and yard that had been hateful to him ever since childhood?
The whispering and kisses on the other side of the fence stirred him. He went out to the middle of the yard and, unbuttoning his shirt on his chest, looked at the moon, and he fancied that he would now order the gate to be opened, go out and never come back there again; his heart was sweetly wrung by the foretaste of freedom, he laughed joyfully and imagined what a wonderful, poetic, and maybe even holy life it could be...
But he went on standing there and asking himself: ‘‘What holds me here?’’ And he was vexed both with himself and with this black dog, which lay on the stones instead of going off to the fields, to the forest, where it would be independent, joyful. Obviously the same thing prevented both him and this dog from leaving the yard: the habit of captivity, of the slavish condition...
The next day, at noon, he went to see his wife, and so as not to be bored, he invited Yartsev to come with him. Yulia Sergeevna was living in a dacha in Butovo, and he had not seen her for five days now. Arriving at the station, the friends got into a carriage, and Yartsev kept singing all the way and admiring the splendid weather. The dacha was in a big park not far from the station. About twenty paces from the gate, at the beginning of the main alley, under an old, spreading poplar, sat Yulia Sergeevna, waiting for her guests. She was wearing a light, elegant, lace-trimmed dress of a pale cream color, and in her hands was the same old, familiar parasol. Yartsev greeted her and went to the dacha, from which came the voices of Sasha and Lida, but Laptev sat down beside her to talk about their affairs.
‘‘Why haven’t you come for so long?’’ she asked without letting go of his hand. ‘‘I sit here for whole days and watch to see if you’re coming. I’m bored without you!’’
She got up and passed her hand over his hair, looking curiously at his face, his shoulders, his hat.
‘‘You know, I love you,’’ she said and blushed. ‘‘You’re dear to me. Here you’ve come, I see you, and I’m so happy I can’t say. Well, let’s talk. Tell me something.’’