“See here, Sergey Kapitonich,” said the director. “Pardon me. It isn’t my affair, yet I must make it clear to you, nevertheless. It is my duty—You see, rumors are on foot that you are on intimate terms with that woman—with your cook—It isn’t my affair, but—You may be on intimate terms with her, you may kiss her—You may do whatever you like, but, please, don’t do it so openly! I beg of you. Don’t forget that you are a pedagogue.”
Akhineyev stood as though frozen and petrified. Like one stung by a swarm of bees and scalded with boiling water, he went home. On his way it seemed to him as though the whole town stared at him as at one besmeared with tar—At home new troubles awaited him.
“Why don’t you eat anything?” asked his wife at their dinner. “What are you thinking about? Are you thinking about Cupid, eh? You are longing for Marfushka. I know everything already, you Mahomet. Kind people have opened my eyes, you barbarian!”
And she slapped him on the cheek.
He rose from the table, and staggering, without cap or coat, directed his footsteps toward Vankin. The latter was at home.
“You rascal!” he said to Vankin. “Why have you covered me with mud before the whole world? Why have you slandered me?”
“How; what slander? What are you inventing?”
“And who told everybody that I was kissing Marfa? Not you, perhaps? Not you, you murderer?”
Vankin began to blink his eyes, and all the fibres of his face began to quiver. He lifted his eyes toward the image and ejaculated:
“May God punish me, may I lose my eyesight and die, if I said even a single word about you to any one! May I have neither house nor home!”