Fyodor Lukitch Sysoev, the master of the factory school maintained at the expense of the firm of Kulikin, was getting ready for the annual dinner. Every year after the school examination the board of managers gave a dinner at which the inspector of elementary schools, all who had conducted the examinations, and all the managers and foremen of the factory were present. In spite of their official character, these dinners were always good and lively, and the guests sat a long time over them; forgetting distinctions of rank and recalling only their meritorious labors, they ate till they were full, drank amicably, chattered till they were all hoarse and parted late in the evening, deafening the whole factory settlement with their singing and the sound of their kisses. Of such dinners, Sysoev had taken part in thirteen, as he had been that number of year’s master of the factory school.
Now, getting ready for the fourteenth, he was trying to make himself look as festive and correct as possible. He had spent a whole hour brushing his new black suit and spent almost as long in front of a looking-glass while he put on a fashionable shirt; the studs would not go into the button-holes, and this circumstance called forth a perfect storm of complaints, threats, and reproaches addressed to his wife.
His poor wife, bustling around him, wore herself out with her efforts. And indeed he, too, was exhausted in the end. When his polished boots were brought him from the kitchen he had not strength to pull them on. He had to lie down and have a drink of water.
“How weak you have grown!” sighed his wife. “You ought not to go to this dinner at all.”
“No advice, please!” the schoolmaster cut her short angrily.
He was in a very bad temper, for he had been much displeased with the recent examinations. The examinations had gone off splendidly; all the boys of the senior division had gained certificates and prizes; both the managers of the factory and the government officials were pleased with the results, but that was not enough for the schoolmaster. He was vexed that Babkin, a boy who never made a mistake in writing, had made three mistakes in the dictation; Sergeyev, another boy, had been so excited that he could not remember seventeen times thirteen; the inspector, a young and inexperienced man, had chosen a difficult article for dictation, and Lyapunov, the master of a neighboring school, whom the inspector had asked to dictate, had not behaved like “a good comrade”; but in dictating had, as it was, swallowed the words and had not pronounced them as written.
After pulling on his boots with the assistance of his wife, and looking at himself once more in the looking-glass, the schoolmaster took his gnarled stick and set off for the dinner. Just before the factory manager’s house, where the festivity was to take place, he had a little mishap. He was taken with a violent fit of coughing…. He was so shaken by it that the cap flew off his head and the stick dropped out of his hand; and when the school inspector and the teachers, hearing his cough, ran out of the house, he was sitting on the bottom step, bathed in perspiration.
“Fyodor Lukitch, is that you?” said the inspector, surprised. “You… have come?”
“You ought to be at home, my dear fellow. You are not at all well today….”
“I am just the same today as I was yesterday. And if my presence is not agreeable to you, I can go back.”
“Oh, Fyodor Lukitch, you must not talk like that! Please come in. Why, the function is really in your honor, not ours. And we are delighted to see you. Of course, we are!”
Within, everything was ready for the banquet. In the big dining-room adorned with German oleographs and smelling of geraniums and varnish, there were two tables, a larger one for the dinner and a smaller one for the hors d’oeuvres. The hot light of midday faintly percolated through the lowered blinds…. The twilight of the room, the Swiss views on the blinds, the geraniums, the thin slices of sausage on the plates, all had a nave, girlishly sentimental air, and it was all in keeping with the master of the house, a good-natured little German with a round little stomach and affectionate, oily little eyes. Adolf Andreyitch Bruni (that was his name) was bustling round the table of hors d’oeuvres as zealously as though it were a house on fire, filling up the wine-glasses, loading the plates, and trying in every way to please, to amuse, and to show his friendly feelings. He clapped people on the shoulder, looked into their eyes, chuckled, rubbed his hands, in fact, was as ingratiating as a friendly dog.
“Whom do I behold? Fyodor Lukitch!” he said in a jerky voice, on seeing Sysoev. “How delightful! You have come in spite of your illness. Gentlemen, let me congratulate you, Fyodor Lukitch has come!”
The school-teachers were already crowding around the table and eating the hors d’oeuvres. Sysoev frowned; he was displeased that his colleagues had begun to eat and drink without waiting for him. He noticed among them Lyapunov, the man who had dictated at the examination, and going up to him, began:
“It was not acting as a comrade! No, indeed! Gentlemanly people don’t dictate like that!”
“Good Lord, you are still harping on it!” said Lyapunov, and he frowned. “Aren’t you sick of it?”
“Yes, still harping on it! My Babkin has never made mistakes! I know why you dictated like that. You simply wanted my pupils to be floored, so that your school might seem better than mine. I know all about it!”
“Why are you trying to get up a quarrel?” Lyapunov snarled. “Why the devil do you pester me?”
“Come, gentlemen,” interposed the inspector, making a woebegone face. “Is it worthwhile to get so heated over a trifle? Three mistakes…not one mistake…does it matter?”
“Yes, it does matter. Babkin has never made mistakes.”
“He won’t leave off,” Lyapunov went on, snorting angrily. “He takes advantage of his position as an invalid and worries us all to death. Well, sir, I am not going to consider your being ill.”
“Let my illness alone!” cried Sysoev, angrily. “What is it to do with you? They all keep repeating it at me: Illness! Illness! Illness! As though I need your sympathy! Besides, where have you picked up the notion that I am ill? I was ill before the examinations, that are true, but now I have completely recovered, there is nothing left of it but weakness.”
“You have regained your health, well, thank God,” said the scripture teacher, Father Nikolay, a young priest in a foppish cinnamon-colored cassock and trousers outside his boots. “You ought to rejoice, but you are irritable and so on.”
“You are a nice one, too,” Sysoev interrupted him. “Questions ought to be straightforward, clear, but you kept asking riddles. That’s not the thing to do!”
By combined efforts, they succeeded in soothing him and making him sit down to the table. He was a long time making up his mind what to drink and pulling a wry face drank a wine-glass of some green liqueur; then he drew a bit of pie towards him and sulkily picked out of the inside an egg with onion on it. At the first mouthful, it seemed to him that there was no salt in it. He sprinkled salt on it and at once pushed it away as the pie was too salt.
At dinner, Sysoev was seated between the inspector and Bruni. After the first course, the toasts began, according to the old-established custom.
“I consider it my agreeable duty,” the inspector began, “to propose a vote of thanks to the absent school wardens, Daniel Petrovitch and… and… and…”
“And Ivan Petrovitch,” Bruni prompted him.
“And Ivan Petrovitch Kulikin, who grudge no expense for the school, and I propose to drink their health. . . .”
“For my part,” said Bruni, jumping up as though he had been stung, “I propose a toast to the health of the honored inspector of elementary schools, Pavel Gennadievitch Nadarov!”
Chairs were pushed back, faces beamed with smiles, and the usual clinking of glasses began.
The third toast always fell to Sysoev. And on this occasion, too, he got up and began to speak. Looking grave and clearing his throat, he, first of all, announced that he had not the gift of eloquence and that he was not prepared to make a speech. Further he said that during the fourteen years that he had been schoolmaster there had been many intrigues, many underhand attacks, and even secret reports on him to the authorities and that he knew his enemies and those who had informed against him, and he would not mention their names, “for fear of spoiling somebody’s appetite; that in spite of these intrigues the Kulikin school held the foremost place in the whole province not only from a moral but also from a material point of view.”
“Everywhere else,” he said, “schoolmasters get two hundred or three hundred roubles, while I get five hundred, and moreover my house has been redecorated and even furnished at the expense of the firm. And this year all the walls have been re-papered. . . .”
Further, the schoolmaster enlarged on the liberality with which the pupils were provided with writing materials in the factory schools as compared with the Zemstvo and Government schools. And for all this, the school was indebted, in his opinion, not to the heads of the firm who lived abroad and scarcely knew of its existence, but to a man who, in spite of his German origin and Lutheran faith, was a Russian at heart.
Sysoev spoke at length, with pauses to get his breath and with pretensions to rhetoric, and his speech was boring and unpleasant. He several times referred to certain enemies of his, tried to drop hints, repeated himself, coughed, and flourished his fingers unbecomingly. At last, he was exhausted and in perspiration and he began talking jerkily, in a low voice as though to himself, and finished his speech not quite coherently: “And so I propose the health of Bruni, that is Adolf Andreyitch, who is here, among us… generally… you understand…”
When he finished everyone gave a faint sigh, as though someone had sprinkled cold water and cleared the air. Bruni alone apparently had no unpleasant feeling. Beaming and rolling his sentimental eyes, the German shook Sysoev’s hand with feeling and was again as friendly as a dog.
“Oh, I thank you,” he said, with an emphasis on the oh, laying his left hand on his heart. “I am very happy that you understand me! I, with my whole heart, wish you all things good. But I ought only to observe; you exaggerate my importance. The school owes its flourishing condition only to you, my honored friend, Fyodor Lukitch. But for you, it would be in no way distinguished from other schools! You think the German is paying a compliment, the German is saying something polite. Ha-ha! No, my dear Fyodor Lukitch, I am an honest man and never make complimentary speeches. If we pay you five hundred roubles a year, it is because you are valued by us. Isn’t that so? Gentlemen, what I say is true, isn’t it? We should pay no one else so much…. Why a good school is an honor to the factory!”
“I must sincerely own that your school is really exceptional,” said the inspector. “Don’t think this is flattery. Anyway, I have never come across another like it in my life. As I sat at the examination, I was full of admiration… Wonderful children! They know a great deal and answer brightly, and at the same time, they are somehow special, unconstrained, sincere… One can see that they love you, Fyodor Lukitch. You are a schoolmaster to the marrow of your bones. You must have been born a teacher. You have all the gifts, innate vocation, long experience, and love for your work… It’s simply amazing, considering the weak state of your health, what energy, what understanding… what perseverance, do you understand, what confidence you have! Someone in the school committee said truly that you were a poet in your work… Yes, a poet you are!”
And all present at the dinner began as one man talking of Sysoev’s extraordinary talent. And as though a dam had been burst, there followed a flood of sincere, enthusiastic words such as men do not utter when they are restrained by prudent and cautious sobriety. Sysoev’s speech and his intolerable temper and the horrid, spiteful expression on his face were all forgotten. Everyone talked freely, even the shy and silent new teachers, poverty-stricken, down-trodden youths who never spoke to the inspector without addressing him as “your honor.” It was clear that in his own circle Sysoev was a person of consequence.
Having been accustomed to success and praise for the fourteen years that he had been a schoolmaster, he listened with indifference to the noisy enthusiasm of his admirers.
It was Bruni who drank in the praise instead of the schoolmaster. The German caught every word, beamed, clapped his hands, and flushed modestly as though the praise referred not to the schoolmaster but to him.
“Bravo! Bravo!” he shouted. “That’s true! You have grasped my meaning!… Excellent!…” He looked into the schoolmaster’s eyes as though he wanted to share his bliss with him. At last he could restrain himself no longer; he leaped up, and, overpowering all the other voices with his shrill little tenor, shouted:
“Gentlemen! Allow me to speak! Shh! To all, you say I can make only one reply: the management of the factory will not be forgetful of what it owes to Fyodor Lukitch!”
All was silent. Sysoev raised his eyes to the German’s rosy face.
“We know how to appreciate it,” Bruni went on, dropping his voice. “In response to your words, I ought to tell you that… Fyodor Lukitch’s family will be provided for and that a sum of money was placed in the bank a month ago for that object.”
Sysoev looked enquiringly at the German, at his colleagues, as though unable to understand why his family should be provided for and not he himself. And at once on all the faces, in all the motionless eyes bent upon him, he read not the sympathy, not the commiseration which he could not endure, but something else, something soft, tender, but at the same time intensely sinister, like a terrible truth, something which in one instant turned him cold all over and filled his soul with unutterable despair. With a pale, distorted face he suddenly jumped up and clutched at his head. For a quarter of a minute, he stood like that, stared with horror at a fixed point before him as though he saw the swiftly coming death of which Bruni was speaking, then sat down and burst into tears.
“Come, come!… What is it?” he heard agitated voices saying. “Water! Drink a little water!”
A short time passed, and the schoolmaster grew calmer, but the party did not recover their previous liveliness. The dinner ended in gloomy silence, and much earlier than on previous occasions.
When he got home Sysoev first of all looked at himself in the glass.
“Of course there was no need for me to blubber like that!” he thought, looking at his sunken cheeks and his eyes with dark rings under them. “My face is much better color to-day than yesterday. I am suffering from anemia and catarrh of the stomach, and my cough is only a stomach cough.”
Reassured, he slowly began undressing, and spent a long time brushing his new black suit, then carefully folded it up and put it in the chest of drawers.
Then he went up to the table where there lay a pile of his pupils’ exercise-books, and picking out Babkin’s, sat down and fell to contemplating the beautiful childish handwriting….
And meantime, while he was examining the exercise-books, the district doctor was sitting in the next room and telling his wife in a whisper that a man ought not to have been allowed to go out to dinner who had not in all probability more than a week to live.