Fyodor Dostoyevsky: Complete Novels & Stories (Wisehouse Classics). Fyodor Dostoyevsky

for even in the lowest of creatures like you it is my habit to discern the image and semblance of God... I forgive you, Falaley. Embrace me, my children. I will remain with you.”

      “He will remain!” they all cried in delight.

      “I will remain and I will forgive. Colonel, reward Falaley with some sugar, do not let him cry on such a day of happiness for all.”

      I need hardly say that such magnanimity was thought astounding. To take so much thought at such a moment, and for whom? For Falaley. My uncle flew to carry out his instruction in regard to the sugar. Immediately a silver sugar-basin—I don’t know where it came from—appeared in the hands of Praskovya Ilyinitchna. My uncle was about to take out two pieces with a trembling hand, then three, then he dropped them, at last, seeing he was incapable of doing anything from excitement.

      “Ah!” he cried, “for a day like this! Hold out your coat, Falaley,” and he poured into his coat all the contents of the sugar-basin. “That’s for your truthfulness,” he said, by way of edification.

      “Mr. Korovkin!” Vidoplyasov announced, suddenly appearing in the doorway.

      A slight flutter of consternation followed—Korovkin’s visit was obviously ill-timed. They all looked inquiringly at my uncle.

      “Korovkin!” cried my uncle, in some embarrassment. “Of course I am delighted...” he added, glancing timidly towards Foma; “but really I don’t know whether to ask him in at such a moment. What do you think, Foma?”

      “Oh, yes, why not,” said Foma amicably. “Invite Korovkin too; let him, too, share in the general rejoicing.”

      In short, Foma Fomitch was in an angelic frame of mind.

      “I most respectfully make bold to inform you,” observed Vidoplyasov, “that the gentleman is not quite himself.”

      “Not quite himself? How? What nonsense are you talking?” cried my uncle.

      “It is so, indeed; he is not quite in a sober condition.”

      But before my uncle had time to open his mouth, flush red, and show his alarm and extreme embarrassment, the mystery was explained. Korovkin appeared in the doorway, pushed Vidoplyasov aside and confronted the astonished company. He was a short, thick-set gentleman of forty, with dark hair touched with grey and closely cropped, with a round purple face and little bloodshot eyes, wearing a high horsehair cravat, fastened at the back with a buckle, an extraordinarily threadbare swallow-tail coat covered with fluff and hay and disclosing a bad rent under the arm, and unspeakable trousers, and carrying an incredibly greasy cap which he was holding out at arm’s length. This gentleman was completely drunk. Advancing into the middle of the room, he stood still, staggering, nodding his head as though he were pecking at something with his nose in drunken hesitation; then he slowly grinned from ear to ear.

      “Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen,” he began, “I... er...” (here he gave a tug at his collar) “got ‘em!”

      Madame la Générale immediately assumed an air of offended dignity. Foma, sitting in his easy-chair, ironically looked the eccentric visitor up and down. Bahtcheyev stared at him in perplexity, through which some sympathy was, however, apparent. My uncle’s embarrassment was incredible; he was deeply distressed on Korovkin’s account.

      “Korovkin,” he began. “Listen.”

      “Attendez!” Korovkin interrupted him. “Let me introduce myself: a child of nature... But what do I see? There are ladies here... Why didn’t you tell me, you rascal, that you had ladies here?” he added with a roguish smile. “Never mind! Don’t be shy. Let us be presented to the fair sex. Charming ladies,” he began, articulating with difficulty and stumbling over every word, “you see a luckless mortal... who... and so on... The rest must remain unsaid... Musicians! A polka!”

      “Wouldn’t you like a nap?” asked Mizintchikov, quietly going up to Korovkin.

      “A nap? You say that to insult me?”

      “Not at all. You know a little sleep is a good thing after a journey...”

      “Never!” Korovkin answered with indignation. “Do you think I am drunk?—not a bit. But where do they sleep here?”

      “Come along, I’ll take you at once.”

      “Where? In the coach-house? No, my lad, you won’t take me in! I have spent a night there already... Lead the way, though. Why not go along with a good fellow.... I don’t want a pillow. A military man does not want a pillow.... But you produce a sofa for me, old man... a sofa. And, I say,” he added, stopping, “I see you are a jolly fellow; produce something else for me... you know? A bit of the rummy, enough to drown a fly in, only enough for that, only one little glass, I mean.”

      “Very well, very well!” answered Mizintchikov.

      “Very well. But you wait a bit, I must say good-bye. Adieu, mesdames and mesdemoiselles. You have, so to speak, smitten... But there, never mind! We will talk about that afterwards... only do wake me when it begins... or even five minutes before it begins... don’t begin without me! Do you hear? Don’t begin!...”

      And the merry gentleman vanished behind Mizintchikov.

      Everyone was silent. The company had not got over their astonishment. At last Foma without a word began noiselessly chuckling, his laughter grew into a guffaw. Seeing that, Madame la Générale, too, was amused, though the expression of insulted dignity still remained on her face. Irrepressible laughter arose on all sides. My uncle stood as though paralysed, flushing almost to tears, and was for some time incapable of uttering a word.

      “Merciful heavens!” he brought out at last. “Who could have known this? But you know... you know it might happen to anyone. Foma, I assure you that he is a most straightforward, honourable man, and an extremely well-read man too, Foma... you will see!...”

      “I do see, I do see,” cried Foma, shaking with laughter; “extraordinarily well-read. Well-read is just the word.”

      “How he can talk about railways!” Yezhevikin observed in an undertone.

      “Foma,” my uncle was beginning, but the laughter of all the company drowned his words. Foma Fomitch was simply in fits, and looking at him, my uncle began laughing too.

      “Well, what does it matter?” he said enthusiastically. “You are magnanimous, Foma, you have a great heart; you have made me happy... you forgive Korovkin too.”

      Nastenka was the only one who did not laugh. She looked with eyes full of love at her future husband, and looked as though she would say—

      “How splendid, how kind you are, the most generous oi men, and how I love you!”

Chapter 6 — Conclusion

      Foma’s triumph was complete and beyond attack.

      Certainly without him nothing would have been settled, and the accomplished fact stifled all doubts and objections. The gratitude of those he had made happy was beyond all bounds. My uncle and Nastya waved me off when I attempted to drop a faint hint at the process by which Foma’s consent to their marriage had been obtained. Sashenka cried: “Good, kind Foma Fomitch; I will embroider him a cushion in woolwork!” and even reproached me for my hard-heartedness. I believe that Bahtecheyev in the fervour of his conversion would have strangled me if I had ventured to say anything disrespectful about Foma Fomitch. He followed Foma about like a little dog, gazed at him with devout reverence, and at every word the latter uttered he would exclaim: “You are a noble man, Foma. You are a learned man, Foma.” As for Yezhevikin, he was highly delighted. The old man had for a long time past seen that Nastenka had turned Yegor Ilyitch’s head, and from that time forward his one dream, waking and sleeping, was to bring about this marriage. He had clung to the idea to the last, and had only given it up when it had been impossible not to do so. Foma had changed the aspect of the affair. I need hardly say that in spite of his delight the old man saw through Foma; in short, it was