Smoke. Ivan Sergeevich Turgenev
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… Mmm. … From top to bottom it’s all rotten,’ observed Gubaryov, without raising his voice, however. ‘In that case punishment is not … that needs … other measures.’
‘But is it really true?’ commented Litvinov.
‘Is it true?’ broke in Madame Suhantchikov. ‘Why, that one can’t even dream of doubting … can’t even d-d-d-ream of it.’ She pronounced these words with such energy that she was fairly shaking with the effort. ‘I was told of that by a very trustworthy man. And you, Stepan Nikolaitch, know him—Elistratov, Kapiton. He heard it himself from eyewitnesses, spectators of this disgraceful scene.’
‘What Elistratov?’ inquired Gubaryov. ‘The one who was in Kazan?’
‘Yes. I know, Stepan Nikolaitch, a rumour was spread about him that he took bribes there from some contractors or distillers. But then who is it says so? Pelikanov! And how can one believe Pelikanov, when every one knows he is simply—a spy!’
‘No, with your permission, Matrona Semyonovna,’ interposed Bambaev, ‘I am friends with Pelikanov, he is not a spy at all.’
‘Yes, yes, that’s just what he is, a spy!’
‘But wait a minute, kindly——’
‘A spy, a spy!’ shrieked Madame Suhantchikov.
‘No, no, one minute, I tell you what,’ shrieked Bambaev in his turn.
‘A spy, a spy,’ persisted Madame Suhantchikov.
‘No, no! There’s Tentelyev now, that’s a different matter,’ roared Bambaev with all the force of his lungs.
Madame Suhantchikov was silent for a moment.
‘I know for a fact about that gentleman,’ he continued in his ordinary voice, ‘that when he was summoned before the secret police, he grovelled at the feet of the Countess Blazenkrampff and kept whining, “Save me, intercede for me!” But Pelikanov never demeaned himself to baseness like that.’
‘Mm … Tentelyev …’ muttered Gubaryov, ‘that … that ought to be noted.’
Madame Suhantchikov shrugged her shoulders contemptuously.
‘They’re one worse than another,’ she said, ‘but I know a still better story about Tentelyev. He was, as every one knows, a most horrible despot with his serfs, though he gave himself out for an emancipator. Well, he was once at some friend’s house in Paris, and suddenly in comes Madame Beecher Stowe—you know, Uncle Tom’s Cabin. Tentelyev, who’s an awfully pushing fellow, began asking the host to present him; but directly she heard his name. “What?” she said, “he presumes to be introduced to the author of Uncle Tom?” And she gave him a slap on the cheek! “Go away!” she says, “at once!” And what do you think? Tentelyev took his hat and slunk away, pretty crestfallen.’
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