“Tell me,” Chekhov put in quietly and kindly, “who is that teacher in your district who beats the children?”
The teacher sprang from his chair and waved his arms indignantly: “Whom do you mean? Me? Never! Beating?”
He snorted with indignation.
“Don't get excited,” Anton Chekhov went on, smiling reassuringly; “I'm not speaking of you. But I remember—I read it in the newspapers—there is some one in your district who beats the children.”
The teacher sat down, wiped his perspiring face, and, with a sigh of relief, said in his deep bass:—
“It's true … there was such a case … it was Makarov. You know, it's not surprising. It's cruel, but explicable. He's married … has four children … his wife is ill … himself consumptive … his salary is 20 roubles, the school like a cellar, and the teacher has but a single room—under such circumstances you will give a thrashing to an angel of God for no fault … and the children—they're far from angels, believe me.”
And the man, who had just been mercilessly belaboring Chekhov with his store of clever words, suddenly, ominously wagging his hooked nose, began to speak simple, weighty, clear-cut words, which illuminated, like a fire, the terrible, accursed truth about the life of the Russian village.
When he said good-bye to his host, the teacher took Chekhov's small, dry hand with its thin fingers in both his own, and, shaking it, said:—
“I came to you as though I were going to the authorities, in fear and trembling … I puffed myself out like a turkey-cock … I wanted to show you that I was no ordinary mortal…. And now I'm leaving you as a nice, close friend who understands everything…. It's a great thing—to understand everything! Thank you! I'm taking away with me a pleasant thought: big men are simpler and more understandable … and nearer in soul to us fellow men than all those wretches among whom we live…. Good-bye; I will never forget you.”
His nose quivered, his lips twisted into a good-natured smile, and he added suddenly: