Simple as Karl Ivanovich's duties might appear to be, my father knew hovv to inject so much bitterness into them that my poor merchant of Reval, accustomed to all the calamities which can fall upon the head of a man with no money, with no brains, who is small in stature, pock-marked and a German, could not endure it perpetually. At intervals of two years or eighteen months, Karl Ivanovich, deeply offended, would declare that
'this is absolutely intolerable,' would pack up, buy or exchange various articles of questionable soundness and dubious quality, and set off for the Caucasus. Ill-luck usually pursued him \vith ferocity. On one occasion his wretched nag-he was driving his own horse to Tiflis and the Kale Redoubt-fell down not far from the land of the Don Cossacks; on another, half his load \Vas stolen from him; on another his two-wheeled gig upset and his French perfumes were spilt over the broken wheel, unappreciated by any one, at the foot of Elbrus; then he would lose something, and when he had nothing left to lose he lost his
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passport. Ten months later, as a rule, Karl Ivanovich, a littlf'
older, a little more battered, a little poorer, with still fewer teeth and less hair, would quite meekly present himself before my father with a store of Persian flea and bed-bug powder, of faded silks and rusty Circassian daggers, and would settle once more in the empty house on the conditions of running errands and using his own firewood to heat his stove.
Observing Karl Ivanovich, my father would at once commence some slight military operations against him. Karl Ivanovich would inquire after his health, the old man would thank him with a bow and then after a moment's thought would inquire, for instance;
'Where do you buy your pomade?'
I must mention here that Karl Ivanovich, the ugliest of mortals, was a fearful dangler after women, considered himself a Lovelace, dressed with pretensions to smartness and wore a curled golden wig. All this, of course, had long ago been weighed and assessed by my father.
'At Boui's's on the Kuznetsky Most,' Karl Ivanovich would answer abruptly, somewhat piqued, and he would cross one leg over the other like a man ready to stand up for himself.
'What's the scent called?'
'Nachtviolen,' answered Karl Ivanovich.
'He cheats you: la violette is a delicate scent, e'est un parfum; but that's something strong, repellent-they embalm bodies with something of that sort! My nerves have gro\vn so weak it's made me feel positively sick; tell them to give me the eau-de-Cologne.'
Karl Ivanovich would himself dash for the flask.
'Oh no, you must call someone, or you will come still closer. I shall be ill ; I shall faint.'
Karl Ivanovich, who was reckoning on the effect of his pomade in the maids' room, would be deeply chagrined.
After sprinkling the room with eau-de-Cologne my father would invent some errands: to buy some French snuff and English magnesia, and to look at a carriage advertised for sale in the papers (he never bought anything) . Karl Ivanovich, pleasantly bowing himself out and sincerely glad to get away, would be gone till dinner.
After Karl Ivanovich the cook appeared; whatever he had bought or whatever he had written down, my father thought extremely_ expensive.
'Ough, ough, how expensive! Why, is it because no supplies have come in?'
'Just so, sir,' answered the cook, 'the roads are very bad.'
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'Oh very well, till they are mended you and I \viii buy less.'
After this he would sit down to his writing-table and write reports and orders to the villages, cast up his accounts, between whiles scolding me, receiving the doctor and, chiefly, quarrelling with his valet. The latter was the greatest sufferer in the whole house. A l ittle, sanguine man, hasty and hot-tempered, he seemed to have been expressly created to irritate my father and provoke his sermons. The scenes that were repeated between them every day might have filled a farce, but it was all perfe-ctly serious. My father knew very well that the man was indispensable to him and often put up with his rude answers, but never ceased trying to train him, in spite of his unsuccessful efforts for thirty-five years. The valet on his side would not have put up with such a life if he had not had his own distractions: more often than not he was somewhat tipsy by dinner-time. My father noticed this, but confined himself to roundabout allusions, advising him, for instance, to munch a l ittle black bread and salt that he might not smell of vodka. Nikita Andreyevich had a habit, when he had had too much to drink, of bowing and scraping in a peculiar way as he handed the' dishes. As soon as my father noticed this, he would invent some errand for himwould send him, for instance, to ask the barber Anton if he had changed his address, adding to me in French,
'I know he has not moved, but the fellow is not sober, he will drop the soup-tureen and smash it, drench the cloth and give me a turn. Let him go out for an airing. Lc grand air will help.'
To such stratagems the valet usually made some reply, but if he could find nothing to say he would go out, muttering between his teeth. Then his master would call him and in the same calm voice ask him what he had said.
'I didn't address a single word to you.'
'To whom were you speaking, then? Except you and me there is no one in this room or the next.'
'To myself.'
'That's very dangerous; that's the way madness begins.'
The valet "vould depart in a rage and go to his room next to my father's bedroom ; there he used to read the Jl.1oscow News and plait hair for wigs for sale. Probably to relieve his anger he would take snuff furiously; whether his snuff was particularly strong or the nerves of his nose were weak I cannot say, but this was almost always followed by his sneezing violently five or six times.
The master would ring. The vale� would fling down his handful of hair and go in.
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'Was that you sneezing?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Bless you.' And he would give a sign with his hand for the valet to withdraw.
On the last day of carnival, all the servants, according to ancient custom, would come in the evening to ask their master's forgiveness: on these solemn occasions my father used to go into the great hall, accompanied by his valet. Then he would pretend not to recognise some of them.
'\Vho is that venerable old man standing there in the corner?'
he would ask the valet.
'Danilo, the coachman,' the valet would answer abruptly, knowing that all this was only a dramatic performance.
'Good gracious! how he has changed. I reaily believe that it is entirely from drink that men get old so quickly; what does he do?'
'He hauls the firewood in for the stoves.'
Thr old man assumed an expression of insufferable pain.
'How is it that in thirty years you have not learned how to speak? . . . Hauls: what's that-hauling firewood?-firewood is carried, not hauled. \Veil, Danilo, thank God, the Lord has thought me worthy to see you once more. I forgive you all your sins for this year, the oats which you waste so immoderately, and for not cleaning the horses, and do you forgive me. Go on hauling firewood while you have the strength, but now Lent is coming, so take less drink; it is bad for us at our age, and besides it is a sin.'