Peredonov laughed with joy at the thought of leaving the house without paying.
“She’s bound to make a demand,” observed Vershina.
“Let her—she won’t get anything out of me,” replied Peredonov angrily.
“We went to Peter2 and we made no use of the house while we were away.”
“But you had rented it.”
“What then? She ought to make a discount; why should we have to pay for time when we weren’t there? Besides, she is very impertinent.”
“Well, your landlady is impertinent because she’s yours—your cousin is particularly quarrelsome,” said Vershina, with an emphasis on the “cousin.”
Peredonov frowned and looked dully in front of him with his half-sleepy eyes. Vershina changed the subject. Peredonov pulled a caramel out of his pocket, tore the paper off and began to chew it. He happened to glance at Marta and thought that she wanted a caramel.
“Shall I give her one or not?” thought Peredonov. “She’s not worth it. I suppose I ought to give her one to show that I’m not stingy. After all, I’ve got a pocketful.”
And he pulled out a handful of caramels.
“Here you are!” he said, and held out the sweets, first to Vershina and then to Marta.
“They’re very good bonbons,” he said, “expensive ones—thirty kopecks a pound.”
Each of the women took a sweet.
“Take more,” he said, “I’ve lots of them. They’re very nice bonbons—I wouldn’t eat bad ones.”
“Thank you, I don’t want any more,” said Vershina in her quick, monotonous voice.
And Marta repeated after her the same words, but with less decision.
Peredonov glanced incredulously at Marta and said:
“What do you mean—you don’t want them? Have another.”
He took a single caramel for himself from the handful and laid the others before Marta. She smiled without speaking and bent her head a little.
“Little idiot!” thought Peredonov, “she doesn’t even know how to thank one properly.”
He did not know what to converse about with Marta. She had no interest for him, like all objects and people with which he had no well-defined relations, either pleasant or unpleasant.
The rest of the beer was poured into Peredonov’s glass. Vershina glanced at Marta.
“I’ll get it,” said Marta.
She always guessed what Vershina wanted without being told.
“Send Vladya—he’s in the garden,” suggested Vershina.
“Vladislav!” shouted Marta.
“Yes?” answered the boy from so close that it seemed as if he had been listening to them.
“Bring some more beer—two bottles,” said Marta, “they’re in the box in the corridor.”
Vladislav soon came back noiselessly, handed the beer to Marta through the window and greeted Peredonov.
“How are you?” asked Peredonov with a scowl. “How many bottles of beer have you got away with today?”
Vladislav smiled in a constrained way and said:
“I don’t drink beer.”
He was a boy of about fourteen with a freckled face like Marta’s, and with uneasy, clumsy movements like hers. He was dressed in a blouse of coarse linen.
Marta began to talk to her brother in whispers. They both laughed. Peredonov looked suspiciously at them. Whenever people laughed in his presence without his knowing the reason he always supposed that they were laughing at him. Vershina felt disturbed and tried to catch Marta’s eye. But Peredonov himself showed his annoyance by asking:
“What are you laughing at?”
Marta started and turned towards him, not knowing what to say. Vladislav smiled, looking at Peredonov, and flushed slightly.
“It’s very rude,” said Peredonov, “to laugh like that before guests. Were you laughing at me?”
Marta blushed and Vladislav looked frightened.
“Oh! no,” said Marta. “We weren’t laughing at you. We were talking about our own affairs.”
“A secret?” exclaimed Peredonov angrily. “It is rude to discuss secrets before guests.”
“It isn’t at all a secret,” said Marta, “but we laughed because Vladya hasn’t all his clothes on and feels bashful about coming in.”
Peredonov was mollified and began to think of jokes about Vladya and presently gave him a caramel.
“Marta, bring me my black shawl,” said Vershina. “And at the same time look into the oven to see how that pie’s getting on.”
Marta went out obediently. She understood that Vershina wanted to talk with Peredonov, and felt glad of the respite.
“And you run away and play, Vladya,” said Vershina, “there’s nothing for you to chatter about here.”
Vladya ran off and they could hear the sand crunching under his feet. Vershina gave a quick, cautious side-glance at Peredonov through the clouds of cigarette smoke she was ceaselessly puffing out. Peredonov sat solemnly and gazed straight in front in a befogged sort of way and chewed a caramel. He felt pleased because the others had gone—otherwise they might have laughed again. Though he was quite certain that they had not been laughing at him, the annoyance remained—just as after contact with stinging nettles the pain remains and increases even though the nettles are left behind.
“Why don’t you get married?” said Vershina very abruptly, “What are you waiting for, Ardalyon Borisitch. You must forgive me if I speak frankly, but Varvara is not good enough for you.”
Peredonov passed his hand over his slightly ruffled chestnut-brown hair and announced with a surly dignity:
“There is no one here good enough for me!”
“Don’t say that,” replied Vershina, with a wry smile. “There are plenty of girls better than she is here and every one of them would marry you.”
She knocked the ash off her cigarette with a decisive movement as if she were emphasising her remark with an exclamation point.
“Everyone wouldn’t suit me,” retorted Peredonov.
“We’re not discussing everyone,” said Vershina quickly, “you’re not the kind of man who’d run after a dot if the girl were a fine girl. You yourself earn quite enough, thank God.”
“No,” replied Peredonov, “it would be more of an advantage for me to marry Varvara. The Princess has promised her patronage. She will give me a good billet,” he went on with grave animation.
Vershina smiled faintly. Her entire wrinkled face, dark as if saturated with tobacco smoke, expressed a condescending incredulousness. She asked:
“Did the
