‘The Consulate,’ I said — by way of getting rid of her.
‘Aha,’ she said, ‘in that case give me an introduction to the Consulate.’
‘Get out!’ said Vladislav impatiently.
‘In that case,’ said she, ‘I’ll come again tomorrow.’
He closed the door on her, and sighed.
‘In France,’ said he, ‘they wouldn’t have listened to her.’
No sooner had the lady gone than Vladislav handed me a card from an unknown lady with the words ‘Daughter of an Actual-State’s-Councillor’ engraved beneath her name. Asked what I could do for her, the lady said she wished to thank me — generally.
‘Generally? For nothing in particular?’
‘Yes, yes, yes,’ she said eagerly, smiling beatifically. Yes — and to present me with a pamphlet written by herself on the subject of phonetic spelling. I promised to peruse the document with care, but she continued calling on me several times a week to impress upon me that the problem of the abolition of the letter yat as well as the hard sign was of a magnitude and urgency such as the Allies in their task of reconstruction could not conveniently ignore. Till, thoroughly exhausted by the lady’s pertinacity, I recommended her to the attention of my American colleague — and wished him joy of her. But he retaliated on me with a lunatic who claimed to be none other than the Emperor Francis Joseph desirous of being restored to his original position, and who henceforth petitioned me to that effect. One day, worn out by visits from the Austrian monarch and the daughter of the actual-state’s-councillor, I dispatched them both together to my U.S. colleague, in a car, and wished him joy of both.
‘This is terrible,’ said Aunt Teresa, as I came into the dining-room.
‘What is terrible?’
‘Stepàn has come back again.’
‘H’m.’
Stepàn was our coachman. Aunt Teresa with her delicate health could not walk much but had to take the fresh air, and so a carriage with two meagre mares and the bearded, disreputable-looking Stepàn was kept for her use, at the side of whom on the soft, sumptuous box Vladislav sat dressed up in a second-hand livery. Stepan was a fatalist, and to all questions, including those of apprehension at his driving, would say: ‘All is possible.’ His attitude to life, if indeed he had one, was one of abject resignation. And of late Stepàn had taken to drink and had spilt Aunt Teresa. When she warned him not to upset her again, he said: ‘All is possible’—and indeed spilt her again. After which she dismissed him. Two months ago she had dismissed him, but he remained in his bunk, taciturn and resigned, and nothing, it seemed, would dislodge him. For half an hour, perhaps, he would go out in the night and then come back to his bunk.
‘Why not lock the door of his bunk while he is out?’
‘There is no lock,’ she replied.
‘H’m.’
I spoke to him. Vladislav spoke to him. Uncle Lucy, too, spoke to him. We all spoke to him, and I got Captain Negodyaev to speak to him. But Stepàn would not budge from his bunk.
One day it seemed as if Stepàn had gone, and Vladislav, reporting the news, crossed himself with relief. But in the morning he informed us that Stepàn had come back in the night.
‘Send for the General,’ at last said Aunt Teresa.
The General arrived soon after three o’clock. ‘I’ll talk to him. I’ll manage him, rest assured,’ he said when he had had his overcoat removed, and rubbing his hands, proceeded to the drawing-room, ‘I’ll tackle the skunk. Bring him in here.’
‘He won’t come here,’ said Aunt Teresa. ‘The trouble is that he won’t go anywhere. He won’t go away.’
‘I’ll go to him. I’ll talk to him. I’ll manage the skunk, never you fear.’
We followed the General into the stable, above which the coachman Stepàn had his abode. The General kicked open the door of Stepàn’s den without undue ceremony. An incredibly odious smell let loose on us, like a wild beast, so that for a moment we were, despite ourselves, forced back into the passage and the General pulled out his scented handkerchief and applied it to his nostrils. But Stepàn sat listless in his bunk, with a queer, peculiarly enervating look of complacent sullenness in his face, and never uttered a word. ‘The skunk!’ said the General, and at once began threatening the man. But Stepàn never uttered a word.
‘I give you three minutes in which to clear out, do you hear, you skunk?’ shouted the General. ‘I’ll this — I’ll that — and I’ll the other thing—’
But Stepàn never moved or uttered a word.
‘You skunk!’ shouted the General. ‘Ach, you bad subject! Why, I’ll take and hang you by the nose on the nearest fence, you bestia! You grovelling reptile! You crocodile!’
But Stepàn never moved or uttered a word.
The General spared no pains. ‘Am I talking to you or am I talking to this wall, you incredible blackguard?’ he shouted again. And he cursed him, and he cursed him, and he cursed him, up and down, this way and that way, lengthwise and sidewise and crosswise and roundabout: ‘Ach, you son of this, and you son of that, and you son of the other thing.’
No good: Stepàn did not stir.
The General resumed with added zest, with renewed vigour, with incredible gusto. After a time he stopped, to take breath and to examine the effect which his threat had had on the man. It seemed as though it had had none.
‘Tough stuff, these people,’ the General said, and wiped his moist brow. ‘Ugh! I’ve even perspired. I once had a batman — Private Solovyov. I was talking to him, do you know, as though he were a human being like myself—talking, you understand. His look was a blank — less intelligent than a cow’s. Only when I began using strong adjectives, dragged in a few choice epithets bearing directly on his family tree, made mention of his mother, and so on, all in the recognized old way—“Ach, you son of a—” and that sort of thing, don’t you know, well, then, and then only, his face began to light up as though after all there was a glimmering spark of reason lingering somewhere in that skull, and then, by shades, by grades, as I persisted with my adjectives, would you believe it, he almost became human; and actually said: “Quite so, your Excellency.” This is the material we’ve got to deal with. Yes … Here nothing is possible. Nothing can be done with this canaille. And how are you?’ he turned to Aunt Teresa. He looked at her tenderly. The sun played on his wrinkled brown eyes.
‘I’m — as always. But this coachman, really—’
‘Where does he come from?’ he asked.
‘Little Russia, I think.’
‘Nothing to be done. Nothing to be done with that race! And what have you been doing with yourself all this time?’
‘I suppose we’ll have to keep him?’ she sighed with dismay, her look betraying the suspicion that she no longer hoped great things from the General and thought that his bark was rather worse than his bite.
The General sighed and looked pensive. ‘He may take to heart what I told him and go. I’ll come again tomorrow, anyhow, and see.’
It was all of no avail. The coachman came back the same night. The General called the next day as he had promised. ‘Tough stuff, these people,’ he sighed when he heard the news from Aunt Teresa. ‘As I told you, I had a batman once, Private Solovyov — a hard case, but in the end I managed to knock a spark of reason out of that skull. But this—’ He sighed. ‘Here … nothing is possible.’