‘Who was that Alexey Ivanitch the Jew,’
I asked, ’through whom he was brought to ruin?’
’Oh, the brother of Agrafena Ivanovna.
A grasping creature, Jewish indeed. He lent his
sister money at interest, and Vassily Fomitch was
her security. He had to pay for it too ... pretty
heavily!’
‘And Fedulia Ivanovna the plunderer—who
was she?’
’Her sister too ... and a sharp one too, as
sharp as a lance. A terrible woman!’
‘What a place to find a Werter!’ I thought
next day, as I set off again towards the brigadier’s
dwelling. I was at that time very young, and
that was possibly why I thought it my duty not to believe
in the lasting nature of love. Still, I was impressed
and somewhat puzzled by the story I had heard, and
felt an intense desire to stir up the old man, to make
him talk freely. ‘I’ll first refer
to Suvorov again,’ so I resolved within myself;
’there must be some spark of his former fire
hidden within him still ... and then, when he’s
warmed up, I’ll turn the conversation on that
... what’s her name? ... Agrafena Ivanovna.
A queer name for a “Charlotte”—Agrafena!’
I found my Werter-Guskov in the middle of a tiny kitchen-garden,
a few steps from the lodge, near the old framework
of a never-finished hut, overgrown with nettles.
On the mildewed upper beams of this skeleton hut some
miserable-looking turkey poults were scrambling, incessantly
slipping and flapping their wings and cackling.
There was some poor sort of green stuff growing in
two or three borders. The brigadier had just
pulled a young carrot out of the ground, and rubbing
it under his arm ‘to clean it,’ proceeded
to chew its thin tail.... I bowed to him, and
inquired after his health.
He obviously did not recognise me, though he returned
my greeting—that is to say, touched his
cap with his hand, though without leaving off munching
the carrot.
‘You didn’t go fishing to-day?’
I began, in the hope of recalling myself to his memory
by this question.
‘To-day?’ he repeated and pondered ...
while the carrot, stuck into his mouth, grew shorter
and shorter. ’Why, I suppose it’s
Cucumber fishing! ... But I’m allowed to,
too.’
’Of course, of course, most honoured Vassily
Fomitch.... I didn’t mean that....
But aren’t you hot ... like this in the sun.’
The brigadier was wearing a thick wadded dressing-gown.
‘Eh? Hot?’ he repeated again, as
though puzzled over the question, and, having finally
swallowed the carrot, he gazed absently upwards.
‘Would you care to step into my apartement?’
he said suddenly. The poor old man had, it seemed,
only this phrase still left him always at his disposal.
