The Schoolmaster

for the annual dinner. Every year after the school examination the board of managers gave a dinner at which the inspector

their meritorious labours, they ate till they were full, drank amicably, chattered till they were all hoarse and parted late in the evening, deafening the whole factory set

rushing 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

too, was exhausted in the end. When his polished boots were brought him from the kitc

ghed his wife. "You ought not

the schoolmaster cu

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

re 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 h

?" said the inspector, surpr

y n

my dear fellow. You are no

yesterday. And if my presence is no

me in. Why, the function is really in your honour, not ours

Swiss views on the blinds, the geraniums, the thin slices of sausage on the plates, all had a na?ve, 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

eeing Sysoev. "How delightful! You have come in spite of your illn

wned; he was displeased that his colleagues had begun to eat and drink without waiting for him. He

ade! No, indeed! Gentlemanly p

g on it!" said Lyapunov, and he

you dictated like that. You simply wanted my pupils to be floored, so t

quarrel?" Lyapunov snarled. "W

one face. "Is it worth while to get so heated over a trifle?

er. Babkin has nev

akes advantage of his position as an invalid and worries us all

lness! illness! . . . As though I need your sympathy! Besides, where have you picked up the notion that I am ill? I was

Father Nikolay, a young priest in a foppish cinnamon-coloured cassock and trou

"Questions ought to be straightforward, clear, but

ing 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

or and Bruni. After the first course the toasts

, "to propose a vote of thanks to the absent school wa

ovitch," Bruni

dge no expense for the school, and I

stung, "I propose a toast to the health of the honoured in

beamed with smiles, and the u

urther 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 h

while I get five hundred, and moreover my house has been redecorated and even furnish

mpared 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

o drop hints, repeated himself, coughed, and flourished his fingers unbecomingly. At last he was exhausted and in a perspiration and he began talking jerkily, in a low voice as though to him

leared the air. Bruni alone apparently had no unpleasant feeling. Beaming and rolling his sen

hing condition only to you, my honoured 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 ma

rightly, 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 fo

en 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 a

rteen years that he had been schoolmaster, he listened w

German caught every word, beamed, clapped his hands, and flushed mod

into the schoolmaster's eyes as though he wanted to share his bliss with him. At last he could restrain hi

make only one reply: the management of the factory will

v raised his eyes to t

your words I ought to tell you that . . . Fyodor Lukitch's family will be provide

seration 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, d

he heard agitated voices sayin

arty did not recover their previous liveliness. The dinner ende

v first of all looked

eks and his eyes with dark rings under them. "My face is a much better colour today than yesterd

long time brushing his new black suit, then careful

pils' exercise-books, and picking out Babkin's, sat down and

the next room and telling his wife in a whisper that a man ought not to have been allowed