When Vasili approached him closer, Semen saw that he was as pale as chalk and wild-eyed; and when he started to speak his voice broke.
“I am off to the city,” he said, “to Moscow—to the main office of the administration.”
“To the administration—Is that it! You are going to make a complaint, are you? Better not, Vasili Stepanich, forget it—”
“No, brother, I will not forget it. It is too late to forget. You see, he struck me in the face, beat me till the blood flowed. As long as I live, I will not forget it, nor let it go at this.”
“Give it up, Stepanich,” Semen spoke to him, taking hold of his hand. “I speak truth: you will not make things better.”
“Who speaks of better! I know myself that I will not make them better; you spoke truly about fate—you did. I shall not do much good to myself, but one has to stand up for justice.”
“But won’t you tell me how it all came about?”
“How it all came about—Well, he inspected everything, left the draisine on purpose to do so—even looked inside the watch-house. I knew beforehand that he would be strict—so I had everything in first-class order. He was already going to leave when I came forward with my complaint. He immediately burst forth: ‘Here,’ he said, ‘is to be a government inspection, you—so and so—and you dare come forward with your complaints about your vegetable garden! We are expecting privy councilors and he comes with his cabbages!’ I could not control myself and said a word—not so very bad either, but it seemed to offend him and he struck me—And I stood there, as if it was the most usual thing in the world to happen. Only, when they went off, I came to my senses, washed off the blood from my face and went away.”
“And what about the watch-house?”
“My wife is there, she will take care; and besides, the devil take their road, anyway!”