“We were talking of Vankin,” he said.  “Queer fish, he is!  He went into the kitchen, saw me beside Marfa, and began inventing all sorts of silly stories.  ‘Why are you kissing?’ he says.  He must have had a drop too much.  ‘And I’d rather kiss a turkeycock than Marfa,’ I said, ‘And I’ve a wife of my own, you fool,’ said I. He did amuse me!”

“Who amused you?” asked the priest who taught Scripture in the school, going up to Ahineev.

“Vankin.  I was standing in the kitchen, you know, looking at the sturgeon. . . .”

And so on.  Within half an hour or so all the guests knew the incident of the sturgeon and Vankin.

“Let him tell away now!” thought Ahineev, rubbing his hands.  “Let him!  He’ll begin telling his story and they’ll say to him at once, ’Enough of your improbable nonsense, you fool, we know all about it!’”

And Ahineev was so relieved that in his joy he drank four glasses too many.  After escorting the young people to their room, he went to bed and slept like an innocent babe, and next day he thought no more of the incident with the sturgeon.  But, alas! man proposes, but God disposes.  An evil tongue did its evil work, and Ahineev’s strategy was of no avail.  Just a week later—­to be precise, on Wednesday after the third lesson—­when Ahineev was standing in the middle of the teacher’s room, holding forth on the vicious propensities of a boy called Visekin, the head master went up to him and drew him aside: 

“Look here, Sergei Kapitonich,” said the head master, “you must excuse me. . . .  It’s not my business; but all the same I must make you realize. . . .  It’s my duty.  You see, there are rumors that you are romancing with that . . . cook. . . .  It’s nothing to do with me, but . . . flirt with her, kiss her . . . as you please, but don’t let it be so public, please.  I entreat you!  Don’t forget that you’re a schoolmaster.”

Ahineev turned cold and faint.  He went home like a man stung by a whole swarm of bees, like a man scalded with boiling water.  As he walked home, it seemed to him that the whole town was looking at him as though he were smeared with pitch.  At home fresh trouble awaited him.

“Why aren’t you gobbling up your food as usual?” his wife asked him at dinner.  “What are you so pensive about?  Brooding over your amours?  Pining for your Marfa?  I know all about it, Mohammedan!  Kind friends have opened my eyes!  O-o-o! . . . you savage!”

And she slapped him in the face.  He got up from the table, not feeling the earth under his feet, and without his hat or coat, made his way to Vankin.  He found him at home.

“You scoundrel!” he addressed him.  “Why have you covered me with mud before all the town?  Why did you set this slander going about me?”

“What slander?  What are you talking about?”

“Who was it gossiped of my kissing Marfa?  Wasn’t it you?  Tell me that.  Wasn’t it you, you brigand?”