"Just fancy, that proved to be impossible. He put Varenka's portrait on his table, kept calling on me and talking about Varenka, and about family life, saying that marriage was a serious step. He went frequently to the Kovalenkos, but he did not alter his habits in the least. On the contrary, his decision to get married seemed to have a deleterious effect on him. He grew thinner and paler and seemed to retreat further into his shell.
" 'I like Varvara Savvishna,' he would say to me, with a faint and crooked smile, 'and I know that everyone ought to get married, but—you know, all this has hap- pened so suddenly— One must think it over a little.'
" 'What is there to think over?' I would say to him. 'Get married—that's all.'
" 'No; marriage is a serious step; one must first weigh the impending duties and responsibilities—so that noth- ing untoward may come of it. It worries me so much that I don't sleep nights. And I must confess I am afraid: she and her brother have such a peculiar way of thinking; they reason so strangely, you know, and she has a very impetuous disposition. You get married, and then, there is no telling, you may get into trouble.'
"And he did not propose; he kept putting it off, to the great vexation of the principal's wife and all our ladies; he kept weighing his future duties and responsi- bilities, and meanwhile he went for a walk with Varenka almost every day—possibly he thought that this was the proper thing under the circumstances—and came to see me to talk about family life. And in all probability he would have ended by proposing to her, and would have made one of those needless, stupid marriages thou- sands of which are made among us out of sheer bore- dom and idleness, if it had not been for a kolossalischer Skandal.
"I must tell you that Varenka's brother conceived a hatred of Belikov from the first day of their acquaint- ance and couldn't endure him.
" 'I don't understand,' he used to say to us, shrugging his shoulders, 'I don't understand how you can put up with that informer, that nasty mug. Ughl how can you live here? The atmosphere you breathe is vile, stifling! Are you pedagogues, teachers? No, you are piddling functionaries; yours is not a temple of learning but a police station, and it has the same sour smell. No, brothers, I will stay with you for a while, and then I will go to my farm and catch crayfish there and teach Ukrainian brats. I will go, and you can stay here with your Judas—blast himl'
"Or he would laugh till tears came to his eyes, his laughter now deep, now shrill, and ask me, throwing up his hands, 'What does he come here for? What does he want? He sits and stares.'
"He even gave Belikov a nickname, 'The Spider.' Of course, we avoided talking to him about his sister's planning to marry 'The Spider.' And when, on one oc- casion, the principal's wife hinted to him what a good thing it would be if his sister settled down with such a substantial, universally respected man as Belikov, he frowned and grumbled:
" 'It's none of my business; let her marry a viper if she likes. I don't care to meddle in other people's af- fairs.'
"Now listen to what happened next. Some wag drew a caricature of Belikov walking along under his um- brella, wearing his rubbers, his trousers tucked up, with Varenka on his arm; below there was the legend 'An- thropos in love.' The artist got the expression admirably, you know. He must have worked more than one night, for the teachers of both the boys' and the girls' high schools, the teachers of the theological seminary, and the government officials all received copies. Belikov re- ceived one, too. The caricature made a very painful impression on him.
"We left the house together; it was the first of May, a Sunday, and all of us, the boys and the teachers, had agreed to meet at the high school and then to walk to a grove on the outskirts of the town. We set off, and he was green in the face and gloomier than a thunder- cloud.
" 'What wicked, malicious people there arel' he said, and his lips quivered.
"I couldn't help feeling sorry for him. We were walk- ing along, and all of a sudden—imaginel—Kovalenko came rolling along on a bicycle, and after him, also on a bicycle, Varenka, flushed and exhausted, but gay and high-spirited.
" 'We are going on ahead,' she shouted. 'What lovely weather! Just too lovely!'
"And they both vanished. Belikov turned from green to white, and seemed petiified. He stopped short and stared at me.
" 'Good heavens, what is this?' he asked. 'Can my eyes be deceiving me? Is it proper for high school teach- ers and ladies to ride bicycles?'
" 'What's improper about it?' I asked. 'Let them ride and may it do them good.'
" 'But you can't mean it,' he cried, amazed at my calm. 'What are you saying?'
"And he was so shocked that he refused to go farther, and returned home.
"Next day he was continually twitching and rubbing his hands nervously, and it was obvious from the ex- pression of his face that he was far from well. And he left before the school day was over, for the first time in his life. And he ate no dinner. Towards evening he wrapped himself up warmly, though it was practically summer weather, and made his way to the Kovalenkos'. Varenka was out; he found only her brother at home.
" 'Please sit down,' Kovalenko said coldly, frownwning. He had a sleepy look; he had just taken an after-dinner nap and was in a very bad humor.
"Belikov sat in silence for about ten minutes, and then began, 'I have come to you to relieve my mind. I am very, very much troubled. Some malicious fellow has drawn a caricature of me and of another person who is close to both of us. I regard it as my duty to assure you that I had nothing to do with it. I have given no grounds for such an attack—on the contrary, I have always behaved as a respectable person would.'
"Kovalenko sat there sulking without a word. Belikov waited a while, and then went on in a low, mournful voice; 'And I have something else to say to you. I have been in the service for years, while you have entered it only lately, and I consider it my duty as an older colleague to give you a warning. You ride a bi- cycle, and that pastime is utterly improper for an edu- cator of youth.'
" *Why so?' asked Kovalenko in his deep voice.
" 'Surely that needs no explanation, Mihail Savvich— surely it is self-evident! If the teacher rides a bicycle, what can one expect of the pupils? The only thing left them is to walk on their heads! And so long as it is not explicitly permitted, it should not be done. I was hor- rified yesterday! When I saw your sister, everything went black before my eyes. A lady or a young girl on a bicycle—it's terrible!'
" 'What is it you wish exactly?'
" 'All I wish to do is to warn you, Mihail Savvich. You are a young man, you have a future before you, you must be very, very careful of your behavior, and you are so neglectful, oh, so neglectful! You go about in an embroidered shirt, are constantly seen in the street carrying books, and now the bicycle, too. The principal will learn that you and your sister ride bicycles, and then it will reach the Trustee's ears. No good can come of that.'
" 'It's nobody's business if my sister and I do bicycle,' said Kovalenko, and he turned crimson. 'And whoever meddles in my private affairs can go to the devill'
"Belikov turned pale and got up.
" 'If you speak to me in that tone, I cannot continue/ he said. 'And I beg you never to express yourself in that manner about our superiors in my presence; you should be respectful to the authorities.'
" 'Have I said anything offensive about the authori- ties?' asked Kovalenko, looking at him angrily. 'Please leave me in peace. I am an honorable man, and do not care to talk to gentlemen of your stripe. I hate in- formers!'
"Belikov fidgeted nervously and hurriedly began put- ting on his coat, with an expression of horror on his face. It was the first time in his life he had been spoken to so rudely.
"'You can say what you please,' he declared, as he stepped out of the entry onto the staircase landing. 'Only I must warn you: someone may have overheard us, and lest our conversation be misinterpreted and harm come of it, I shall have to inform the principal of the contents of our conversation—in a general way. I am obliged to do so.'