The Created Legend by Fyodor Sologub (ebook reader color screen TXT) 📕

Cadets’ cause, was now sitting quietly on the sofa in the Svetilovitch drawing-room, and expounding truths. Notwithstanding her Constitutional Democratic convictions, she was a real priest’s spouse, a housewifely, loquacious, timorous creature.

Priest Zakrasin’s sister, Irina Matveyevna, or Irinushka as everyone called her, was a parish-school girl who had been won over to the cause by the priest’s wife; she was young, rosy, and slender, and greatly resembled her brother. She got excited so often and so intensely that she constantly had to be appeased by the elders, who regarded her youthful impetuosity with benevolent amusement.

Rameyev was there with both his daughters, the Matov brothers, and Miss Harrison. Trirodov was there also.

There was almost a spirit of gaiety. They talked on various subjects⁠—on politics, on literature, on local matters, etc. Sonya’s mother sat in the drawing-room and discussed women’s rights and the works of Knut Hamsun. Sonya’s mother liked this writer intensely, and loved to tell about her meeting with him abroad. There was an autographed portrait of Knut Hamsun upon her table and it was the object of much pride for the whole Svetilovitch family.

At the tea-table in the small neighbouring room, which was called the “buffet,” Sonya⁠—surrounded by young people⁠—was pouring out tea. In Doctor Svetilovitch’s study they spoke of the recent unrest in nearby villages. There were incendiary fires on various estates and farms belonging to the landed gentry. There were several cases in which the bread granaries belonging to certain hoarders were broken into.

Sonya’s mother was asked to play something. She refused a long time, but finally, with evident pleasure, went to the grand piano, and played a selection from Grieg. Then the notary took his turn at the instrument. Irinushka, blushing furiously, sang with much expression the new popular song to his accompaniment:

Once I loved a learnèd student,
I admit I wasn’t prudent;
On the day I married him
The village feasted to the brim.

Vodka everyone was drinking,
All were doing loud thinking⁠—
How to make the masters toil,
And amongst us share their soil.

Suddenly there came a copper
Right into our hut a-flopper!
“I’ll send you both to Sakhalin22
For raising this rebellious din.”

“Well, my dear one, quick, get ready,
Mind that you walk ’long there steady,
For your charming words, my sweet,
A gaol is waiting you to greet.”

Do you think I was agitated?
No, not me⁠—I was most elated.
Then the muzhiks stepped right in
And chucked him out on the green.

This song was an illustration appropriate to the discussions on village tendencies. It achieved a great success. Irinushka was profusely praised and thanked for it. Irinushka blushed, and regretted that she knew no other songs of the same kind.

Then Trirodov read his story of a beautiful and exultant love. He read simply and calmly, not as actors read. He finished reading and in the cold polite praises he felt how remote he was from all these people. Once more, as it frequently had happened before, there stirred in his soul the thought: “Why do I come to see these people?”

“There is so little in common between them and me,” thought Trirodov. Only Elisaveta’s smile and word consoled him.

Afterwards there was dancing⁠—then card-playing. It was as always, as everywhere.

XXIII

No one else was expected. The dining-room table was being set for supper. Suddenly there was a loud, violent bell-ring. The housemaid ran quickly to answer it. Someone in the drawing-room remarked in astonishment:

“A rather late visitor.”

Everyone suddenly felt depressed for some reason. There was an air of ominous expectancy. Were robbers about to break in? Was it a telegram containing an unpleasant announcement? Or would someone come in panting and exhausted and divulge a piece of terrible news? But the words they addressed to each other were of quite a different nature.

“But who can it be at such a late hour?” said one woman to another.

“Who else can it be but Piotr Ivanitch!”

“That’s so; he likes coming late.”

“Do you remember⁠—once at the Taranovs?”

Piotr Ivanitch, approaching at that moment, overheard the remark.

“You are unfair to me, Marya Ivanovna! I’ve been here a long time,” said he.

“Forgive me, but who, then, can it be?” said Marya Ivanovna in confusion.

“We’ll soon know. Let’s take a look.”

The inquisitive engineer put his head out into the hall and stumbled upon someone in a grey uniform who was walking impetuously towards the drawing-room. Someone whispered in suppressed horror:

“The police!”

When the maid, in response to the ring, opened the door, several men filed into the hall, awkwardly jostling one another⁠—house-porters,23 gendarmes, detectives, an Inspector of the police, an officer of the gendarmerie, two petty constables. The maid stood speechless with fright. The police inspector shouted at her:

“Get back to the kitchen!”

A detachment of policemen and porters remained outside under the command of the Inspector of the constabulary. They watched to see that no one entered or left the Svetilovitch house.

Altogether about twenty policemen entered the house. For some unknown reason they were armed with rifles with fixed bayonets. Three hideous-looking men in civilian clothes kept close to the policemen. These were the detectives. Two policemen stationed themselves at the entrance, two others ran to the telephone, which was attached to a wall in the hall. It was evident that everything had been arranged beforehand by a manager expert in such matters. The rest of the men tumbled into the drawing-room. The Inspector of the police stretched his neck and, assuming a tense red expression and bulging his eyes, shouted very loudly.

“Don’t anyone dare to move from his place!”

And he looked round in self-satisfaction at the officer of the gendarmerie.

The men and the women remained transfixed in their places, as if they were acting a tableau. They were looking silently at the newcomers.

The policemen, awkwardly holding their rifles, tramped with their ponderous boots on the parquet-floor and made their way about the rooms. They paused at all the doors, looked at the visitors timorously and savagely, uneasily pressed the barrels of their rifles, and tried to look like real soldiers. It was evident