“I’m in for it!  I’m spliced!” he thought, going limp with horror.  “It’s all over with you now, my boy!  There’s no escape!”

And he bowed his head submissively, as though to say, “Take me, I’m vanquished.”

“Ble-blessings on you,” the papa went on, and he, too, shed tears.  “Natashenka, my daughter, stand by his side.  Kleopatra, give me the ikon.”

But at this point the father suddenly left off weeping, and his face was contorted with anger.

“You ninny!” he said angrily to his wife.  “You are an idiot!  Is that the ikon?”

“Ach, saints alive!”

What had happened?  The writing master raised himself and saw that he was saved; in her flutter the mamma had snatched from the wall the portrait of Lazhetchnikov, the author, in mistake for the ikon.  Old Peplov and his wife stood disconcerted in the middle of the room, holding the portrait aloft, not knowing what to do or what to say.  The writing master took advantage of the general confusion and slipped away.

FAT AND THIN

Two friends—­one a fat man and the other a thin man—­met at the Nikolaevsky station.  The fat man had just dined in the station and his greasy lips shone like ripe cherries.  He smelt of sherry and fleur d’orange.  The thin man had just slipped out of the train and was laden with portmanteaus, bundles, and bandboxes.  He smelt of ham and coffee grounds.  A thin woman with a long chin, his wife, and a tall schoolboy with one eye screwed up came into view behind his back.

“Porfiry,” cried the fat man on seeing the thin man.  “Is it you?  My dear fellow!  How many summers, how many winters!”

“Holy saints!” cried the thin man in amazement.  “Misha!  The friend of my childhood!  Where have you dropped from?”

The friends kissed each other three times, and gazed at each other with eyes full of tears.  Both were agreeably astounded.

“My dear boy!” began the thin man after the kissing.  “This is unexpected!  This is a surprise!  Come have a good look at me!  Just as handsome as I used to be!  Just as great a darling and a dandy!  Good gracious me!  Well, and how are you?  Made your fortune?  Married?  I am married as you see. . . .  This is my wife Luise, her maiden name was Vantsenbach . . . of the Lutheran persuasion. . . .  And this is my son Nafanail, a schoolboy in the third class.  This is the friend of my childhood, Nafanya.  We were boys at school together!”

Nafanail thought a little and took off his cap.

“We were boys at school together,” the thin man went on.  “Do you remember how they used to tease you?  You were nicknamed Herostratus because you burned a hole in a schoolbook with a cigarette, and I was nicknamed Ephialtes because I was fond of telling tales.  Ho—­ho! . . . we were children! . . .  Don’t be shy, Nafanya.  Go nearer to him.  And this is my wife, her maiden name was Vantsenbach, of the Lutheran persuasion. . . .”