‘‘I’m astonished,’’ the zoologist said softly. ‘‘How he’s put the screws to himself !’’
‘‘Yes, it’s worthy of astonishment,’’ sighed Samoilenko. ‘‘He sits like that from morning till evening, sits and works.
He wants to pay his debts. And brother, he lives worse than a beggar!’’
Half a minute passed in silence. The zoologist, the doctor, and the deacon stood by the window, and they all looked at Laevsky.
‘‘So he never left here, poor fellow,’’ said Samoilenko. ‘‘Remember how he fussed about?’’
‘‘Yes, he’s really put the screws to himself,’’ repeated von Koren. ‘‘His marriage, this all-day work for a crust of bread, some new expression in his face, and even his gait—it’s all extraordinary to such a degree that I don’t even know what to call it.’’ The zoologist took Samoilenko by the sleeve and went on with agitation in his voice: ‘‘Tell him and his wife that I was astonished at them as I was leaving, wished them well . . . and ask him, if it’s possible, not to think ill of me. He knows me. He knows that if I could have foreseen this change then, I might have become his best friend.’’
‘‘Go in to him, say good-bye.’’
‘‘No. It’s awkward.’’
‘‘Why? God knows, maybe you’ll never see him again.’’
The zoologist thought a little and said:
‘‘That’s true.’’
Samoilenko tapped softly on the window with his finger. Laevsky gave a start and turned to look.
‘‘Vanya, Nikolai Vassilyich wishes to say good-bye to you,’’ said Samoilenko. ‘‘He’s just leaving.’’
Laevsky got up from the desk and went to the front hall to open the door. Samoilenko, von Koren, and the deacon came in.
‘‘I’ve come for a moment,’’ the zoologist began, taking off his galoshes in the front hall and already regretting that he had given way to his feelings and come in uninvited. (‘‘As if I’m forcing myself on him,’’ he thought, ‘‘and that’s stupid.’’) ‘‘Forgive me for bothering you,’’ he said, following Laevsky into his room, ‘‘but I’m just leaving, and I felt drawn to you. God knows if we’ll ever see each other again.’’
‘‘I’m very glad... I humbly beg you,’’ said Laevsky, and he awkwardly moved chairs for his visitors, as if he wished to bar their way, and stopped in the middle of the room, rubbing his hands.
‘‘I should have left the witnesses outside,’’ thought von Koren, and he said firmly:
‘‘Don’t think ill of me, Ivan Andreich. To forget the past is, of course, impossible, it is all too sad, and I haven’t come here to apologize or to insist that I’m not to blame. I acted sincerely and have not changed my convictions since . . . True, as I now see, to my great joy, I was mistaken concerning you, but one can stumble even on a smooth road, and such is human fate: if you’re not mistaken in the main thing, you’ll be mistaken in the details. No one knows the real truth.’’
‘‘Yes, no one knows the truth . . .’’ said Laevsky.
‘‘Well, good-bye . . . God grant you all good things.’’
Von Koren gave Laevsky his hand; he shook it and bowed.
‘‘So don’t think ill of me,’’ said von Koren. ‘‘Give my greetings to your wife, and tell her I was very sorry I couldn’t say good-bye to her.’’
‘‘She’s here.’’
Laevsky went to the door and said into the other room:
‘‘Nadya, Nikolai Vassilievich wishes to say good-bye to you.’’
Nadezhda Fyodorovna came in; she stopped by the door and looked timidly at the visitors. Her face was guilty and frightened, and she held her arms like a schoolgirl who is being reprimanded.
‘‘I’m just leaving, Nadezhda Fyodorovna,’’ said von Koren, ‘‘and I’ve come to say good-bye.’’
She offered him her hand irresolutely, and Laevsky bowed.
‘‘How pitiful they both are, though!’’ thought von Koren. ‘‘They don’t come by this life cheaply.’’
‘‘I’ll be in Moscow and Petersburg,’’ he asked, ‘‘do you need to have anything sent from there?’’
‘‘Need anything?’’ said Nadezhda Fyodorovna, and she exchanged alarmed glances with her husband. ‘‘Nothing, I believe . . .’’
‘‘No, nothing . . .’’ said Laevsky, rubbing his hands. ‘‘Say hello for us.’’
Von Koren did not know what else could or needed to be said, yet earlier, as he was coming in, he thought he would say a great many good, warm, and significant things. He silently shook hands with Laevsky and his wife and went out with a heavy feeling.
‘‘What people!’’ the deacon was saying in a low voice, walking behind. ‘‘My God, what people! Truly, the right hand of God planted this vineyard! Lord, Lord! One defeated thousands and the other tens of thousands. 32 Nikolai Vassilyich,’’ he said ecstatically, ‘‘know that today you have defeated the greatest human enemy—pride!’’
‘‘Come now, Deacon! What kind of victors are we? Victors look like eagles, but he’s pitiful, timid, downtrodden, he keeps bowing like a Chinese doll, and I ... I feel sad.’’
There was the sound of footsteps behind them. It was Laevsky catching up to see them off. On the pier stood the orderly with the two suitcases, and a little further off, four oarsmen.
‘‘It’s really blowing, though . . . brr!’’ said Samoilenko. ‘‘Must be a whale of a storm out at sea—aie, aie! It’s not a good time to be going, Kolya.’’
‘‘I’m not afraid of seasickness.’’
‘‘That’s not the point... These fools may capsize you. You ought to have gone in the agent’s skiff. Where’s the agent’s skiff ?’’ he shouted to the oarsmen.
‘‘Gone, Your Excellency.’’
‘‘And the customs skiff ?’’
‘‘Also gone.’’
‘‘Why wasn’t it announced?’’ Samoilenko got angry. ‘‘Dunderheads!’’
‘‘Never mind, don’t worry . . .’’ said von Koren. ‘‘Well, good-bye. God keep you.’’
Samoilenko embraced von Koren and crossed him three times.
‘‘Don’t forget me, Kolya . . . Write . . . We’ll expect you next spring.’’
‘‘Good-bye, Deacon,’’ said von Koren, shaking the deacon’s hand. ‘‘Thanks for the company and the good conversation. Think about the expedition.’’
‘‘Lord, yes, even to the ends of the earth!’’ laughed the deacon. ‘‘Am I against it?’’
Von Koren recognized Laevsky in the darkness and silently gave him his hand. The oarsmen were already standing below, holding the boat, which kept knocking against the pilings, though the pier sheltered it from the big swells. Von Koren went down the ladder, jumped into the boat, and sat by the tiller.
‘‘Write!’’ Samoilenko shouted to him. ‘‘Take care of yourself !’’
‘‘No one knows the real truth,’’ thought Laevsky, turning up the collar of his coat and tucking his hands into his sleeves.
The boat briskly rounded the pier and headed into the open. It disappeared among the waves, but shot up at once out of the deep hole onto a high hill, so that it was possible to make out the people and even the oars. The boat went ahead about six yards and was thrown back four.
‘‘Write!’’ shouted Samoilenko. ‘‘What the deuce makes you go in such weather!’’
‘‘Yes, no one knows the real truth . . .’’ thought Laevsky, looking with anguish at the restless, dark sea.
‘‘The boat is thrown back,’’ he thought, ‘‘it makes two steps forward and one step back, but the oarsmen are stubborn, they work the oars tirelessly and do not fear the high waves. The boat goes on and on, now it can no longer be seen, and in half an hour the oarsmen will clearly see the steamer’s lights, and in an hour they’ll already be by the steamer’s ladder. So it is in life... In search of the truth, people make two steps forward and one step back. Sufferings, mistakes, and the tedium of life throw them back, but the thirst for truth and a stubborn will drive them on and on. And who knows? Maybe they’ll row their way to the real truth...’’