The Goryushkino estate would have been ours now."
"You cannot forget that Goryushkino," says Arina Petrovna, evidently brought to a standstill.
"What do I care for Goryushkino?
I don't need anything.
If I have enough to buy a church candle and some oil for the image lamp, I am satisfied.
But what about justice, dear mamma, justice? Yes, mother dear, I would be glad to hold my tongue, but I cannot help being frank with you. There's a sin on your conscience, a great sin, indeed."
Arina Petrovna does not answer, and it is impossible to tell whether she is dejected or merely perplexed.
"Another thing," Yudushka goes on, evidently reveling in mother dear's embarrassment. "Why did you buy a house for brother Stepan?"
"I had to, my friend. I had to give him some share," says Arina Petrovna, trying to defend herself.
"And he squandered it away, of course.
As if you did not know him! You knew he was a loafer, a disrespectful, foul-mouthed scamp.
And to think that you wanted to give him the Vologda village, too.
A neat little estate with a nice little forest and a tiny lake, lying like a shelled egg—Christ be with it! It is well that I happened to be around and kept you from taking that imprudent step. Ah, mamma dear, mamma dear, how could you?"
"But he was a son of mine, you understand? A son!"
"I know, I understand very well.
And still, I repeat, you ought not to have done it.
You paid twelve thousand for the house—where is the money?
And Goryushkino is worth at least fifteen thousand. So the loss comes to quite a sum."
"Well, that will do, that will do. Don't be angry with me, please don't!"
"I am not angry, dearest mother, I am only upholding the cause of justice. What's true is true—and I loathe falsehood. I was born with truth, have lived with truth, and with truth I shall die.
God loves truth and He would have us, too, love it.
Take the case of Pogorelka, for instance. I shall always say you invested too much money in it."
"But I myself lived there."
Yudushka clearly reads "You silly Bloodsucker!" on his mother's face; but he makes believe he does not see.
"Well, yes, you lived there—still—the image-case is in Pogorelka. Whose is it, I'd like to know.
And the pony and the tea-caddy. I saw that tea-caddy at Golovliovo with my own eyes, when papa was still alive. What a beautiful little box!"
"Well, but——"
"No, dearest mother, let me speak. Of course it looks like a trifling matter, but a ruble here, half a ruble there, come to quite a sum in the end. Let me use exact figures and make it clear to you.
Figures are holy, they never lie."
Porfiry Vladimirych runs over to the table with the intention of finally determining the exact amount of loss that his mother dear had caused him to sustain.
He manipulates the counting-board, covers sheets of paper with rows of figures, arms himself to convict Arina Petrovna.
But fortunately for her his wavering thoughts cannot remain fixed on one subject for a long time.
Unnoticed by himself a new thought enters his mind and, as if by magic, gives an entirely different trend to his ideas.
The image of his mother, a minute ago so clear before his eyes, suddenly drops away. He forgets her, his notions become confused, other notions enter his mind.
Porfiry Vladimirych has long had the intention of figuring out what his crops could bring him in. The opportune moment is here.
He knows the peasant is always in want, is always on the lookout to borrow provender and always pays his debts with interest.
He knows also that the peasant is especially generous with his work, which "costs him nothing," and is not considered as possessing any value in settling accounts.
There are many needy people in Russia, oh, how many!
There are many people who do not know what the next day will bring them, who see nothing but despair and emptiness wherever they turn their weary eyes, and who hear everywhere only one clamor: "Pay your debt! Pay your debt!"
It is around these shiftless, utterly destitute men that Yudushka weaves his net, with a delight passing sometimes into an orgy.
It is April, and the peasant as usual has nothing to eat.
"You have gobbled up all your crops, my dear fellows," Porfiry Vladimirych muses. "All winter you feasted, and in spring your stomach is shrivelled from hunger." He has just settled the accounts of last year's crops.
The threshing was completed in February, the grain was in the granaries in March, and the amount was recorded in the numerous books the other day.
Yudushka stands at the window and waits.
On the bridge afar off the peasant Foka appears in his cart.
At the bend of the road leading to Golovliovo he shakes the reins rather hastily, and for want of a whip hits his battered jade with his fist.
"He's heading here," whispers Yudushka. "Look at the horse. A wonder it can drag its feet.
But if you had fed it well a month or two, it would become quite a horse.
You might get twenty-five rubles for it, or even as much as thirty."
Meanwhile Foka drives up to the servants' house. He ties the animal to the hedge, throws it a handful of hay, and a minute later stands in the maids' quarters, shifting from one foot to another. It is in the maids' quarters that Porfiry Vladimirych usually receives such visitors.