The day was hot, sultry, windless—helplessly prostrate before the arrowed glances of the infuriated Dragon. A number of city folk sought coolness on the float, as the buffet at the steamboat-landing was called in Skorodozh. It was less oppressive under the canvas roof of the float, where at intervals gusts of breeze came from the river.

Piotr and Misha were in town to do some shopping. They stopped on the float to get a glass of lemonade. A steamboat had just come in below them. It began to unload the passengers and wares it brought from neighbouring manufacturing towns. It was the boat’s last stopping-point, the river higher up being too shallow. For a while there was much bustle and noise on the float. The little tables were soon occupied by townsfolk and new arrivals, chiefly officials and landlords. They drank wine and talked loudly, though peacefully; they shouted in the provincial manner, and it was easy to hear that many of the conversations touched more or less on political themes.

Two men who sat at one table were in evident agreement, yet spoke in tones of anger. They were the retired District Attorney Kerbakh and the retired Colonel Zherbenev, both large land-proprietors and patriots—members of the Union of Russian People.9 Their speech was loud and vehement, and interpolated with such strange words and phrases as “treachery,” “sedition,” “hang them,” “wipe them out,” “give it to them.”

Nikolai Ilyitch Kerbakh was a small, thin, puny-looking man. The long, drooping moustache on his otherwise clean-shaven face seemed to be there merely to add to its already savage appearance. He rocked in his chair as he lazily stretched himself. His large coat hung about his shoulders like a bag, his highly coloured waistcoat was unbuttoned, his string necktie hung loose, half undone. Altogether he had the look of a man who would not let such small trifles stand in the way of his comfort. Near him, fidgeting restlessly in his chair, was his son, a slobbering, black-toothed youngster of eight, with a flagging, carmine-red under-lip.

Andrey Lavrentyevitch Zherbenev, a tall, lank man with an important air, sat motionless and erect as though he were nailed to his chair, and surveyed those round him with a stern glance. His white linen coat, with all its buttons fastened, sat on him as on a bronze idol.

“In everything, I say, the parents are to blame,” continued Kerbakh in the same savage voice as before. “It is necessary to instil the right ideas from very childhood. Now look at my children....”

And he shouted at his son with unnecessary loudness, though the two sat almost nudging each other:

“Sergey!”

“Yeth?” lisped the slobbering boy.

“Stand up before me and answer.”

The youngster slipped off his chair, stretched himself smartly to his full height in front of his father, and lisped again:

“Yeth, father?”

And he surveyed those sitting at the other tables with a quick, sly look.

“What should be done with the enemies of the Tsar and the Fatherland?” asked Kerbakh.

“They should be destroyed!” answered the boy alertly.

“And afterwards?” continued his father.

The boy quickly repeated the words he had studied:

“And afterwards the foul corpses of the vile enemies of the Fatherland should be thrown on the dunghill.”

Kerbakh and Zherbenev laughed gleefully.

“That describes them—foul carrion, that’s what they are!” said Zherbenev in a hoarse voice.

A new-comer at the next table, a stranger apparently to those present, was giving an order for a bottle of beer. Of middle age and medium height, he was stout, or rather flabby; he had small glittering eyes; and his dress had seen much wear. Kerbakh and Zherbenev gave him an occasional passing glance, not of a very friendly nature. As though they took it for granted that the stranger held antagonistic views, they increased the vehemence of their speeches and spoke more and more furiously of agitators and of Little Mother Russia, and mentioned, by the way, a number of local undesirables, Trirodov among them.

The new-comer scrutinized the two speakers for a long time. It was evident that the name of Trirodov, often repeated in Kerbakh’s remarks, aroused an intense interest, even agitation, in the stranger. His fixed scrutiny of his two neighbours at last attracted their attention and they exchanged annoyed glances.

Then the stranger ventured to join in their conversation.

“I beg your pardon,” he said, “unless I am mistaken, you were speaking of Mr. Trirodov—am I right?”

“My dear sir, you....” began Kerbakh.

The new-comer immediately jumped to his feet and began to apologize profusely.

“May I impose upon your good nature to forgive my impertinent curiosity. I am Ostrov, the actor—tragedian. You may have heard of me?”

“For the first time,” said Kerbakh surlily.

“I’ve never heard the name,” said Zherbenev.

The stranger smiled pleasantly, as if he had been commended, and continued to speak without showing the slightest embarrassment:

“Well—er—I’ve played in many cities. I’m just passing through here. I’m on my way to attend to some personal business in the Rouban Government. And you just happened to mention a name very familiar to me.”

Kerbakh and Zherbenev exchanged glances. Malignant thoughts about Trirodov again took possession of their minds. Ostrov continued:

“I had no suspicion that Trirodov lived here. He is a very old and intimate acquaintance of mine. I might say we are friends.”

“So-o,” said Zherbenev severely, glancing at Ostrov with disapproval.

Something in Ostrov’s voice and manner aroused their antagonism. His glance was certainly impudent. Indeed his words and his whole demeanour were provokingly arrogant. But it was impossible to be rude with him. His words were proper enough in themselves.

“We haven’t met for some years,” Ostrov went on. “How does he manage to get on?”

“Mr. Trirodov is to all appearances a rich man,” said Kerbakh unwillingly.

“A rich man? That’s agreeable news. In fact, this wealth of Mr. Trirodov’s is of comparatively recent origin. I’m quite sure of that. Of recent origin, I assure you,” repeated Ostrov, giving a sly wink.

“And not of the cleanest?” asked Kerbakh.

He winked at Zherbenev. The latter made a grimace and chuckled. Ostrov looked cautiously at Kerbakh.

“Why do you assume so?” he asked. “No-o, I shouldn’t say that. Quite clean. Indeed, I can assure you of its clean origin,” he repeated with peculiar emphasis.

Misha looked with curiosity at the speakers. He wished to hear something about Trirodov. But Piotr quickly paid his bill and rose to go. Kerbakh tried to hold him.

“Here’s a friend of your friend Trirodov,” he said.

“I haven’t yet had time to become a friend of Trirodov’s,” Piotr answered sharply, “and I don’t intend to. As for his friends, nearly every one has his more or less strange acquaintance.”

And he quickly left with Misha. Ostrov glanced after him with a smile and said:

“A grave young man.”

“Mr. Trirodov has bought some land belonging to him and his brother,” explained Kerbakh.

Piotr Matov’s hostility to Trirodov evidently had its roots in the chance circumstance that Trirodov had bought the house and part of the estate, the Prosianiya Meadows, which formerly belonged to the paternal Matov.

Many in the town of Skorodozh remembered very well Dmitry Alexandrovitch Matov, the father of Piotr and Mikhail Matov. He had been a member of the local District Council for a single term, and was not chosen again. He could not hide his connexions and his affairs, and lost his reputation, though the scandal was hushed up. This happened when times were still quiet. During his term of office he paid visits to the governor more often than necessary.

About the same time, in response to some one’s complaint, the President of the District Council had been dispatched “in administrative order” to the Olonetsk Government. There were dark rumours about Matov. At the next election a few votes were given in his favour, but not enough. He ceased to have any connexion with the District Council.

Matov’s money affairs were in a bad state. He led a heedless life, dissipated, and roamed from place to place. Bold, headstrong, unrestrained, he lived only for his own pleasure. More than once he squandered all—to the last farthing. But invariably he found sudden means again, no one knew how, and again he would lead a dissipated, gay, profligate life. His estate was mortgaged and re-mortgaged. His relations with the peasants began to be unbearable. Their own difficulties and his temper led to constant disputes. A reign of spite began: the cattle were driven into the corn, some of the buildings were set afire, some of the peasants were gaoled.

The Prosianiya Meadows more than once passed from a period of lavish prosperity to a state of complete and hopeless poverty. This was because Matov was lucky enough to fall heir to several inheritances. Not only did people say that luck was on his side, but they also hinted at forged wills, strangled aunts, and poisoned children. Dark adventures of some sort enriched and ruined Matov by turns. It was all like some dubious, fantastic game of chance....

During the lean days the ingeniously constructed buildings on his estate were in a state of disrepair, the live stock showed decrease, the wheat was got rid of quickly and cheaply, the wood was sold for a trifling sum for lumber, the labourers were not paid for the work they had done. On the other hand, during prosperous days, following the death of some relative, things used to pick up in a marvellous way. Companies of carpenters, masons, roofers, and painters would make their appearance. The owner’s fancies were swiftly and energetically carried out. Money was spent lavishly, without reckoning the cost.

Dmitry Alexandrovitch Matov was already forty years old, and many dark, mad misdeeds weighed on his shoulders, when, quite unexpectedly to all and possibly to himself, he married a young girl with excellent means and a dark past. There was a report that she had been the mistress of a dignitary, who had begun to grow weary of her. She managed, none the less, to keep up her connexions and to collect capital. She would have been very beautiful but for a strange stain—as from fire—on her left cheek, which disfigured her. This spot was very conspicuous and completely marred the beauty of her face.

Very shortly a fierce hatred arose between husband and wife, no one knew why. The gossips said he was disappointed in his expectations, while she had found out about his mistresses and revels and had got wind of the dark rumours about his inheritances. The quarrels grew more frequent. Quite often he left his home, and always suddenly. Once he took all valuables with him and decamped, leaving with his wife only his mortgaged estate, his debts, and their two sons. A short time afterwards all sorts of reports came in about him. Some had seen him in Odessa, others in Manchuria. Later even rumours ceased.

Then came the unexpected news of his death in a remote southern town. Its cause remained unknown. Even his body had not been found. It was only certain that he had been lured into an empty, uninhabited house—there all trace of him was lost.

Matov’s widow soon died from a sudden, sharp illness. Her sons remained in the house of Rameyev. He became their guardian.

“He’s an agitator and a conspirator,” said Zherbenev sharply.

Ostrov smiled.

“All the same, I must stand up for my friend. Pardon me if I ask the question: are these calumnies against my friend actuated by patriotic reasons? Of course, from the most honourable impulses!”

“I do not take up my time with calumnies,” said Zherbenev dryly.

“Oh, I beg your pardon. But I’ll not intrude upon you any longer. I’m very grateful for the pleasant conversation and for the interesting information.”

Ostrov left them. Kerbakh and Zherbenev quietly discussed him.

“What a strange-looking man! Quite a beast!”

“Yes, what a character! I shouldn’t like to meet him alone in the woods.”

“Our poet and doctor of chemistry has fine friends, I must say!”