BETWEEN five and six in the evening. A fairly well-known man of
learning--we will call him simply the man of learning--is sitting
in his study nervously biting his nails.
"It's positively revolting," he says, continually looking at his
watch. "It shows the utmost disrespect for another man's time and
work. In England such a person would not earn a farthing, he would
die of hunger. You wait a minute, when you do come . . . ."
And feeling a craving to vent his wrath and impatience upon someone, the man of learning goes to the door leading to his wife's room and knocks.
"Listen, Katya," he says in an indignant voice. "If you see Pyotr
Danilitch, tell him that decent people don't do such things. It's
abominable! He recommends a secretary, and does not know the sort
of man he is recommending! The wretched boy is two or three hours
late with unfailing regularity every day. Do you call that a
secretary? Those two or three hours are more precious to me than
two or three years to other people. When he does come I will swear
at him like a dog, and won't pay him and will kick him out. It's
no use standing on ceremony with people like that!"
"You say that every day, and yet he goes on coming and coming."
"But to-day I have made up my mind. I have lost enough through him. You must excuse me, but I shall swear at him like a cabman."
At last a ring is heard. The man of learning makes a grave face; drawing himself up, and, throwing back his head, he goes into the entry. There his amanuensis Ivan Matveyitch, a young man of eighteen, with a face oval as an egg and no moustache, wearing a shabby, mangy overcoat and no goloshes, is already standing by the hatstand. He is in breathless haste, and scrupulously wipes his huge clumsy boots on the doormat, trying as he does so to conceal from the maidservant a hole in his boot through which a white sock is peeping. Seeing the man of learning he smiles with that broad, prolonged, somewhat foolish smile which is seen only on the faces of children or very good-natured people.
"Ah, good evening!" he says, holding out a big wet hand. "Has your
sore throat gone?"
"Ivan Matveyitch," says the man of learning in a shaking voice, stepping back and clasping his hands together. "Ivan Matveyitch."
Then he dashes up to the amanuensis, clutches him by the shoulders, and begins feebly shaking him.
"What a way to treat me!" he says with despair in his voice. "You
dreadful, horrid fellow, what a way to treat me! Are you laughing
at me, are you jeering at me? Eh?"
Judging from the smile which still lingered on his face Ivan
Matveyitch had expected a very different reception, and so, seeing
the man of learning's countenance eloquent of indignation, his oval
face grows longer than ever, and he opens his mouth in amazement.
"What is . . . what is it?" he asks.
"And you ask that?" the man of learning clasps his hands. "You know
how precious time is to me, and you are so late. You are two hours
late! . . . Have you no fear of God?"
"I haven't come straight from home," mutters Ivan Matveyitch, untying
his scarf irresolutely. "I have been at my aunt's name-day party, and my aunt lives five miles away. . . . If I had come straight from home, then it would have been a different thing."
"Come, reflect, Ivan Matveyitch, is there any logic in your conduct? Here you have work to do, work at a fixed time, and you go flying off after name-day parties and aunts! But do make haste and undo your wretched scarf! It's beyond endurance, really!"
The man of learning dashes up to the amanuensis again and helps him
to disentangle his scarf.
"You are done up like a peasant woman, . . . Come along, . . . Please make haste!"
Blowing his nose in a dirty, crumpled-up handkerchief and pulling
down his grey reefer jacket, Ivan Matveyitch goes through the hall
and the drawing-room to the study. There a place and paper and even
cigarettes had been put ready for him long ago.
"Sit down, sit down," the man of learning urges him on, rubbing his
hands impatiently. "You are an unsufferable person. . . . You know
the work has to be finished by a certain time, and then you are so
late. One is forced to scold you. Come, write, . . . Where did we
stop?"
Ivan Matveyitch smooths his bristling cropped hair and takes up his
pen. The man of learning walks up and down the room, concentrates
himself, and begins to dictate: