Matvei [surlily]: The furnichure (furniture) man.
Zhazikov: Do I owe him anything?
Matvei: Fifty - two rubles.
Zhazikov: Is that so? For what? The desk has all gone to pieces. See. It doesn’t look like anything. In the future, I shall buy my furniture of Hambs. I hate Russian - made furniture. Russians know how to grow long beards, but not to make furniture. It is cheap but rotten. [Bell.] The devil take it! Again! They don’t let me do anything. I can’t even drink my tea in peace . . . it’s terrible. [Disappears behind the screen.]
[Matvei goes to the vestibule.]
Girl’s Voice: Is your master home?
[Zhazikov looks out from behind the screen quickly.]
Matvei’s Voice: No, he went away this morning.
Zhazikov [loudly]: Who is there?
Girl’s Voice: Why did you say he wasn’t home?
Matvei’s Voice: Well, go in ... If he himself . . .
[A girl of about sixteen enters. She has a bundle in her hand. She has on a hat and coat.]
Zhazikov [smiling pleasantly]: What do you wish?
Matvei: She is from the wash woman.
Zhazikov [somewhat confused]: Oh! So what do you want?
Girl [giving him a bill]: I want to get the money.
Zhazikov [indifferently]: Ah! [Looks at the bill.] Very well. Eleven rubles and fifty kopecks — Very well. Come in to - morrow, please.
Girl: Arina Matvieevna told me to get it to - day.
Zhazikov: I should like to pay you to - day — [Smiling.] — with pleasure; but I have no change, — that is, believe me, no change at all.
Girl: I’ll change it for you in the store.
Zhazikov: No, you had better come in again. [Playing with the bath - robe tassels.] To - morrow, or, if you like, this afternoon, after dinner.
Girl: No, please pay now. Arina Matvieevna will scold me if I don’t bring the money.
Zhazikov: What a cruel woman! To scold you is the height of injustice. I declare — I cannot understand — What’s your name, my dear?
Girl: Matriona.
Zhazikov: My dear Matriona, I like you very much.
Girl: No, no; please give me the money — the amount on the bill.
Zhazikov: Believe me, I’ll pay — the full amount. I am in despair. . . . [Bell rings.] The devil take them! Goodbye, my dear, until to - morrow. Come to - morrow, and I’ll pay the full amount. Good - bye, my little angel.
Girl: No, no, don’t . . .
[Zhazikov hides back of the screen.]
Matvei: Go, go, my dear; go
Girl: But Arina Matvieevna will scold me to death.
Matvei: Well, go, go! [Gently pushes her on.]
Zhazikov [shouting to Matvei]: Get her out the back way! Do you hear? Otherwise she may run into somebody. [To himself.] How disgusting! How odious! She is a peach, though. I’ll have to . . . [Bell. Hides again.]
Man’s Voice [hoarse and coarse]: Home?
Matvei’s Voice: No, sir.
Man’s Voice: You are lying!
Matvei’s Voice: Honest to God
Man’s Voice: What’s the matter with your master? Is he making fun of me? Who does he think I am, — his errand boy? I gave him money and he wants me to run after it every day. Give me a piece of paper and a pen — I’ll write him a note.
Matvei’s Voice: All right.
Man’s Voice: Take my coat off, you cur!
[An Unknown Man enters. He is of medium height, stocky, with black side - whiskers. Matvei gives him paper and pen. He sits down at the table, grumbles, and writes. Dead silence reigns back of the screen.]
Man [getting up]: Give this to your master. Do you hear me?
Matvei: Yes, sir.
Man: And tell him, your master, that I don’t like to joke. Ill put your master in jail; tell him that. I’ll fix him!
[Goes out, puts his rubbers on noisily in the vestibule. The door closes. Zhazikov comes out after a minute or two.]
Zhazikov [indignantly]: Scoundrel! He wants to frighten me. Oh, no; not me! He doesn’t know me! [Reads note.] Scoundrel! Scoundrel! Contemptible scoundrel! [Tears the note to pieces.] Uncouth, ignorant boor!
I am no better than he for getting in with him. Threaten me! [Paces the room in agitation.] I must take steps . . . [BeZZ.] Heavens! [Disappears behind the screen again.]
Matvei’s Voice: What do you want?
Driveb’s Voice: Yesterday, I drove your master
Matvei’s Voice: Where did you take him?
Driver’s Voice: To Podiacheski; and from there to the Sands.
Matvei’s Voice: Then what do you want?
Driver’s Voice: He told me to come for the money to - day.
Matvei’s Voice: How much?
Driver’s Voice: Thirty kopecks.
Matvei’s Voice: Come to - morrow.
Driver’s Voice [after a short silence]: Yes, sir.
Zhazikov [coming out from behind the screen]: Yes, I can see plainly that I need more money. In fact, it is absolutely necessary that I should have some. Matvei! [Matvei enters.] Do you know where General Schentsel lives?
Matvei: I do.
Zhazikov: Take a letter over there. Go, I’ll call you. [iSt’is down at the table and writes.] What abominable pens! I’ll have to get some in the English store. [Reads aloud.] “Your Excellency — Permit me to have recourse to you with a humble . . . [Fixes it.] — most humble request: Can you let me have three hundred rubles in cash for a few days? I feel ashamed to bother you; but I hope you will forgive me. I, for my part, will be extremely much obliged to you; and will positively return it to you in full, on time. I beg to remain, Sincerely and devotedly yours” ... I think that is all right. It sounds a little too familiar, but that doesn’t matter. It only shows a little independence, freedom, easi
ness. But that’s nothing. I am not without a social position in life. I am a nobleman! Something will come out of this. . . . Matvei! [Matvei enters.] Here, take this over there. But please don’t tarry there. You ought to return soon; he lives right in this neighborhood.
Matvei [going out]: Why tarry?
Zhazikov: Well, something will come out of that. I think he will let me have it. He is a good man and he likes me. I haven’t touched my tea yet! It must be cold. [Drinks.] It is cold! Well, it can’t be helped. [After a short pause.] I must do something. . . . No, I can’t; I’ll wait for Matvei. He will bring something. Suppose he should not find him home? . . . What time is it? [Goes up to the clock.] Half - past eleven. [Becomes thoughtful.] Shall I try to write something? . . . What shall I write? [Lies down on the sofa.] It’s terrible! [Shudders.] Matvei! .. . No, not yet. [Recites.]
“It’s sad to think that in vain Youth was given us . . .”
Yes, that’s it: sad. Pushkin is a great poet. . . . What’s the matter with Matvei? [Thinks.] To tell the truth, I’ve done wrong in not entering military service. First, it would have been better; secondly, I have, — I feel within me that I have, — the ability for tactics — I certainly have that. . . . Well, it can’t be helped now.
[Matvei enters.]
Zhazikov [hiding his head in the pillows and covering his face with his hands, he shouts]: I know, I know. ... He was not at home? Well, he was not at home? . . . Well, speak quickly!
Matvei: No, he was at home.
Zhazikov [lifting his head]: Oh, he was at home? . . . Have you got an answer?
Matvei: Yes, sir, I have.
Zhazikov [turning away his head and stretching out his hand]: Give it to me, give it to me. . . . [Feels the letter.] It is empty. [Looks at it closely.] Well! [Takes the letter away from his eyes.] That’s my letter!
Matvei: He wrote on the back of your letter.
Zhazikov: Well, I understand, I understand! He refused. . . . What a lobster! I can’t even read his answer. [Throws the letter away.] I know what’s there. . . . [Picks up the letter.] However, it is better to read it over; maybe he doesn’t refuse altogether. Perhaps he promises — [To M
atvei.] He gave you the letter himself?
Matvei: No, sir; he sent it out by a man.
Zhazikov: Mmm. . . . Well, I’ll read it; there is nothing lost. [Reads and smiles ironically.] He is a great fellow, he is a great fellow. . . . “My dear Timofei Petrovich, I cannot comply with your request. However, I beg to remain. . . .” However, he begs to remain! There is good will! There are kind relations for you! [Throws the letter away.] May the devil take him!
Matvei [with a sigh]: It has been an unlucky day!
Zhazikov: Now you have to put your say in! Get out of here. I must work, do you understand me? [Matvei goes out. Zhazikov paces the room awhile.] It’s bad, it’s bad. . . . [Site down at the table.] I must get to work. [Stretches himself, takes up a French novel, opens it at random, and begins to read.]
[Matvei enters.]
Matvei [semi - audibly]: Timofei PetrovicK . . .
Zhazikov: Well, what do you want?
Matvei [semi - audibly]: Sidor came.
Zhazikov [semi - audibly]: What has he come for?
Matvei [semi - audibly]: He says that he needs the money. His master is going back to the country and is going to take him along. So he came to ask for his money.
Zhazikov [semi - audibly]: How much do I owe him?
Matvei [semi - audibly]: With interest, it amounts to about fifty rubles.
Zhazikov [semiraudibly]: Did you tell him that I was home?
Matvei [semi - audibly]: No.
Zhazikov [semi - audibly]: Good; but how is it that I heard no bell?
Matvei [semi - audibly]: He came the back way.
Zhazikov [whispering angrily]: Why do you let them come in the back way? How is it that they know the back way? They might come in some day and rob me. That’s disorder and I do not like it. The front way is the way to come in.
Matvei [whisperingly]: Yes, sir. I’ll send him away now. Only, he asked me when he should come for the money.
Zhazikov [in an undertone]: When — when — well, in about a week or so
Matvei [in an undertone]: Yes, sir; only, Timofei Petrovich, try to have it for him.
Zhazikov: Why? Is he related to you?
Matvei: He is.
Zhazikov: That’s why you are trying so hard for him! Well, go, go. . . . All right. I’ll pay him. Go!
[Matvei goes out.]
Zhazikov: They are all looking out for their own. I know them; they are all of a kind. [Takes to reading the French novel again; but suddenly lifts his head.] I didn’t expect that from his Excellency; and he is a friend of my father’s, and an army colleague of his. [Gets up, stands before the looking - glass, and sings.]
“Cease, struggling passions, Sleep, hopeless heart . . .”
Well, I must get to work. [Site down at the table.] Yes, I need it; I need it.
[Matvei enters.] Zhazikov: Is that you, Matvei? Matvei: Yes, sir.
Zhazikov: What’s the matter there? Matvei: A dog - fancier has come; he wants to see you. He says that you told him to come to the house.
Zhazikov: Oh, yes, yes; that’s it. I did. Has he brought a dog with him? Matvei: He has one with him.
Zhazikov: Tell him to come in. Is it a setter? Come in, my dear fellow.
[A dog - fancier enters. He wears a coarse coat and a kerchief is tied around his cheeks. He has an old, vile - looking dog by a string.] Zhazikov [looking the dog over with an eye - glass]: What’s her name?
Dog - Fancier: Minder.
[The dog looks at her master timidly and wags her short tail spasmodically.] Zhazikov: Is she a good dog? Dog - Fancier: A most excellent dog. Isi, Minder!
Zhazikov: Does she know how to carry things? Dog - Fancier: Sure, she does. [Takes his cap from under his arm and throws it on the floor.] Pil - aport!
[The dog brings him the cap.] Zhazikov: That’s good; and how is she in the field? Dog - Fancier: First class. . . . Kush! Tibo! Oh, you! Zhazikov: Is she old?
Dog - Fancier: This is her third spring. [Pulls her by the string.]
Zhazikov: Well, what do you want for her? Dog - Fancier: Fifty rubles; and not less. Zhazikov: Nonsense! That’s too much. Say thirty. Dog - Fancier: No, I can’t. I ask you very little. Zhazikov: Oh, make it ten rubles!
[Matvei’s face expresses a terrible anguish.] Doo - Fancier: I can’t, sir; really, I can’t. Zhazikov: Well then to the deuce with it. What breed is it?
Dog - Fancier: Good breed. Zhazikov: Good breed?
Dog - Fancier: We don’t keep the poor kind. We never bother with them.
Zhazikov [ironically]: You never keep them? Dog - Fancier: Why should we keep them? Zhazikov [to Matvei]: What do you think, is she a good dog?
Matvei [disheartened]: Good dog. Zhazikov: Well, will you take thirty - five rubles? Dog - Fancier: Forty rubles is the least I’ll take. You can have her for forty rubles. Zhazikov: No, no; no more. Dog - Fancier: Well, so be it; take her.
Zhazikov: You should have given her up long ago. And she is a good dog?
Dog - Fancier: Such a dog, sir, as you won’t find in the whole city.
Zhazikov [somewhat confused]: Well, you see, my dear fellow, I have quite a little money now; but I must buy something else with it. . . . You come in to - morrow, about this time, you understand? Or, day after to - morrow, only a little earlier.
Dog - Fancier: Give a little deposit — I’ll leave the dog here.
Zhazikov: No, I can’t do that.
Dog - Fancier: Just one ruble.
Zhazikov: No, I’d rather pay the whole of it in one lump.
Dog - Fancier [going to the door]: Listen, sir: give me the cash, now, and you can have her for thirty rubles.
Zhazikov: I can’t now.
Dog - Fancier: Well, give me twenty rubles.
Zhazikov: I can’t now; absolutely impossible, my dear.
Dog - Fancier: Twenty rubles, if you want to, now.
Zhazikov: You are a funny man. I tell you I can’t now.
Dog - Fancier: Isi, Minder, Isi! [Smiling bitterly.] It is very plain, sir, that your honor never had any money. Isi, scoundrel, isi.
Zhazikov: How dare you?
Dog - Fancier: And he is asking me to come to his house! Isi!
Zhazikov: Get out of here, ruffian! Matvei, kick him out of here!
Dog - Fancier: Be quiet! I’ll go out myself.
Zhazikov: Matvei! What did I tell you?
Dog - Fancier [from vestibule]: Just come near me, you old devil!
[Matvei follows him out.]
Zhazikov [shouting after him]: Kick him out; knock him in the head!!! Get out, get out!! . . . [Begins to pace the room.] What a contemptible cur! . . . The dog, I think, wasn’t good, either. I am glad I did not buy it; but he had no right to insult. ... He had no right. . . . [Sits down on the sofa.] What a rotten day it has been! I haven’t done a single thing since I got up and I haven’t got any money, either. And I need money very much, very much. Matvei!
[Matvei enters.]
Matvei: Yes, sir?
Zhazikov: Take a letter from me to Krinitsyn.
Matvei: Yes, sir.
Zhazikov: Matvei!
Matvei: What do you wish, sir?
Zhazikov: What do you think, — will he give me money?
Matvei: No, Timofei Petrovich, he won’t give anything.
Ziiazikov: He’ll give. [Clicks with his tongue.] You’ll see, he will give.
Matvei: He won’t give, Timofei Petrovich.
Zhazikov: Why? Why?
Matvei [after a short silence]: Timofei Petrovich, let me, an old fool, say something.
Zhazikov: Say it.
Matvei [after coughing a little]: Timofei Petrovich! Permit me to tell you: you are not doing right by living here. You, sir, are our master by birth; you are, sir, a landowner by inheritance; why should you want to live here in the city, be in need, have troubles? You have an inherited estate, you know it; your mother, by God’s good graces, is well, — why shouldn’t you go and live with her on your own inherited estate?
Zhazikov: Have you received a letter from mother? It seems you are singing her tune.
Matvei: I did receive a letter from the mistress; she deemed me worthy to be written to, so to say; and I wrote to her about your health, in detail, as she ordered me to do. Permit me to tell you, Timofei Petrovich, that she is very uneasy in mind about you; she asked me to write and tell her what you were doing, who was your company, where you went, everything, so to say. She threatened, so to say, to punish me if I didn’t write all about you. “Tell Timofei Petrovich,” she wrote, “that his mother is uneasy about him; and that it is not right to live in St. Petersburg, without doing anything, and wasting money.” That’s what she said.
A Sportsman's Sketches: Works of Ivan Turgenev 1 Page 354