"But who are they, those Siberians? Mining proprietors or merchants?"

one of the gentlemen asked, during a pause in the laughter.

"Nikita, ask ze pa.s.sport from ze chentleman zat as come," said M.

Chevalier.

"We, Alexander, ze Autocrat--" M. Chevalier began to read the pa.s.sport, which had been brought in the meantime, but the officer of Cossacks tore it out of his hands, and his face expressed surprise.

"Guess who it is," he said, "for you all know him by reputation."

"How can we guess? Show it to us! Well, Abdel Kader, ha, ha, ha! Well, Cagliostro-- Well, Peter III.--ha, ha, ha, ha!"

"Well, read it!"

The officer of Cossacks unfolded the paper and read the name of him who once had been Prince Peter Ivanovich, and the family name which everybody knows and p.r.o.nounces with a certain respect and pleasure, when speaking of a person bearing that name, as of a near and familiar person. We shall call him Labazov. The officer of Cossacks had a dim recollection that this Peter Labazov had been something important in the year '25, and that he had been sent to hard labour,--but what he had been famous for, he did not exactly know. But of the others not one knew anything about him, and they replied:

"Oh, yes, the famous prince," just as they would have said, "Of course, he is famous!" about Shakespeare, who had written the "aeneid." But they recognized him from the explanations of the stout officer, who told them that he was a brother of Prince Ivan, an uncle of the Chikins, of Countess Prut, in short, the well-known--

"He must be very rich, if he is a brother of Prince Ivan," remarked one of the young men, "if the fortune has been returned to him. It has been returned to some."

"What a lot of exiles are returning nowadays!" remarked another.

"Really, fewer seem to have been sent away, than are returning now.

Zhikinski, tell us that story of the 18th!" he turned to an officer of sharp-shooters, who had the reputation of being a good story-teller.

"Do tell it!"

"In the first place, it is a true story, and happened here, at Chevalier's, in the large hall. Three Decembrists came to have their dinner. They were sitting at one table, eating, drinking, talking.

Opposite them sat down a gentleman of respectable mien, of about the same age, and he listened to their talking about Siberia. He asked them something, they exchanged a few words, began to converse, and it turned out that he, too, was from Siberia.

"'And do you know Nerchinsk?'

"'Indeed I do, I lived there.'

"'And do you know Tatyana Ivanovna?'

"'Of course I do!'

"'Permit me to ask you,--were you, too, exiled?'

"'Yes, I had the misfortune to suffer, and you?'

"'We are all exiles of the 14th of December. It is strange that we should not know you, if you, too, were exiled for the 14th. Permit me to know your name!'

"'Fedorov.'

"'Also for the 14th?'

"'No, for the 18th.'

"'For the 18th?'

"'For the 18th of September, for a gold watch. I was falsely accused of having stolen it, and I suffered, though innocent.'"

All of them rolled in laughter, except the story-teller, who with a most serious face looked at the outstretched hearers and swore that it was a true story.

Soon after the story one of the young men got up and went to the club.

He pa.s.sed through the halls which were filled with tables at which old men were playing whist; turned into the "infernal region," where the famous "Puchin" had begun his game against the "company;" stood for awhile near one of the billiard-tables, where, holding on to the cushion, a distinguished old man was fumbling around and with difficulty striking a ball; looked into the library, where a general, holding a newspaper a distance away from him, was reading it slowly above his gla.s.ses, and a registered young man turned the leaves of one periodical after another, trying to make no noise; and finally seated himself on a divan in the billiard-room, near some young people who were playing pyramids, and who were as much gilded as he was.

It was a day of dinners, and there were there many gentlemen who always frequented the club. Among them was Ivan Vavilovich Pakhtin. He was a man of about forty years of age, of medium stature, fair-complexioned, with broad shoulders and hips, with a bare head, and a glossy, happy, clean-shaven face. He was not playing at pyramids, but had just sat down beside Prince D----, with whom he was on "thou" terms, and had accepted a gla.s.s of champagne which had been offered to him. He had located himself so comfortably after the dinner, having quietly unbuckled his trousers at the back, that it looked as though he could sit there all his life, smoking a cigar, drinking champagne, and feeling the proximity of princes, counts, and the children of ministers. The news of the arrival of the Labazovs interfered with his calm.

"Where are you going, Pakhtin," said a minister's son, having noticed during the game that Pakhtin had got up, pulled his waistcoat down, and emptied his champagne in a large gulp.

"Syevernikov has invited me," said Pakhtin, feeling a restlessness in his legs. "Well, will you go there?"

"Anastasya, Anastasya, please unlock the door for me." That was a well-known gipsy-song, which was in vogue at that time.

"Perhaps. And you?"

"Where shall I, an old married man, go?"

"Well!"

Pakhtin, smiling, went to the gla.s.s hall, to join Syevernikov. He was fond of having his last word appear to be a joke. And so it came out at that time, too.

"Well, how is the countess's health?" he asked, walking over to Syevernikov, who had not called him at all, but who, according to Pakhtin's surmise, should more than any one else learn of the arrival of the Labazovs. Syevernikov had somehow been mixed up with the affair of the 14th, and was a friend of the Decembrists. The countess's health was much better, and Pakhtin was very glad to hear it.

"Do you know, Labazov has arrived; he is staying at Chevaliers."

"You don't say so! We are old friends. How glad I am! How glad! The poor old fellow must have grown old. His wife wrote to my wife--"

But Syevernikov did not finish saying what it was she had written, because his partners, who were playing without trumps, had made some mistake. While speaking with Ivan Pavlovich, he kept an eye on them, and now he leaned forward with his whole body against the table, and, thumping it with his hands, he tried to prove that they ought to have played from the seven. Ivan Pavlovich got up and, going up to another table, in the middle of a conversation informed another worthy gentleman of his bit of news, again got up, and repeated the same at a third table. The worthy gentlemen were all glad to hear of the arrival of the Labazovs, so that, upon returning to the billiard-room, Ivan Pavlovich, who at first had had his misgivings about whether he had to rejoice in the return of the Labazovs, or not, no longer started with an introduction about the ball, about an article in the _Messenger_, about health, or weather, but approached everybody directly with the enthusiastic announcement of the safe return of the famous Decembrist.

The old man, who was still vainly endeavouring to hit the white ball with his cue, would, in Pakhtin's opinion, be very much delighted to hear the news. He went up to him.

"Are you playing well, your Excellency?" he said, just as the old man stuck his cue into the marker's red waistcoat, wishing to indicate that it had to be chalked.

"Your Excellency" was not said, as you might think, from a desire of being subservient (no, that was not the fashion in '56). Ivan Pavlovich was in the habit of calling the old man by his name and patronymic, but this was said partly as a joke on men who spoke that way, partly in order to hint that he knew full well to whom he was talking, and yet was taking liberties, and partly in truth: altogether it was a very delicate jest.

"I have just learned that Peter Labazov has returned. Straight from Siberia, with his whole family."

These words Pakhtin p.r.o.nounced just as the old man again missed his ball, for such was his bad luck.

"If he has returned as cracked as he went away, there is no cause for rejoicing," gruffly said the old man, who was irritated by his incomprehensible failure.

This statement vexed Ivan Pavlovich, and again he was at a loss whether there was any cause for rejoicing at Labazov's return, and, in order fully to settle his doubt, he directed his steps to a room, where generally a.s.sembled the clever people, who knew the meaning and value of each thing, and, in short, knew everything. Ivan Pavlovich was on the same footing of friendship with the frequenters of the intellectual room as with the gilded youths and with the dignitaries. It is true, he had no special place of his own in the intellectual room, but n.o.body was surprised to see him enter and seat himself on a divan. They were just discussing in what year and upon what occasion there had taken place a quarrel between two Russian journalists. Waiting for a moment of silence, Ivan Pavlovich communicated his bit of news, not as something joyous, nor as an unimportant event, but as though part of the conversation. But immediately, from the way the "intellectuals" (I use the word "intellectuals" as a name for the frequenters of the "intellectual" room) received the news and began to discuss it, Ivan Pavlovich understood that it belonged there, and that only there would it receive such an elaboration as to enable him to carry it farther and _savoir a quoi s'en tenir_.

"Labazov was the only one who was wanting," said one of the intellectuals; "now all the living Decembrists have returned to Russia."

"He was one of the herd of the famous--" said Pakhtin, still with an inquisitive glance, prepared to make that quotation both jocular and serious.