“Not me, but Varvara,” admitted Peredonov. “But it comes to the same thing.”
“You rely too much on your cousin’s word,” said Vershina spitefully. “But tell me, is she much older than you? Say, by fifteen years? Or more? she must be under fifty.”
“Nonsense,” said Peredonov angrily, “she’s not yet thirty!”
Vershina laughed.
“Please tell me,” she said with unconcealed derision. “Surely, she looks much older than you. Of course, it’s not my business, it’s not my affair. Still, it is a pity that such a good-looking, clever young man should not have the position he deserves.”
Peredonov surveyed himself with great self-satisfaction. But there was no smile on his pink face and he seemed hurt because everybody did not appreciate him as Vershina did.
“Even without patronage you’ll go far,” continued Vershina, “surely the authorities will recognise your value. Why should you hang on to Varvara? And none even of the Routilov girls would suit you; they’re too frivolous and you need a more practical wife. You might do much worse than marry Marta!”
Peredonov looked at his watch.
“Time to go home,” he observed and rose to say goodbye.
Vershina was convinced that Peredonov was leaving because she had put to him a vital question and that it was only his indecision that prevented him from speaking about Marta immediately.
II
Varvara Dmitrievna Maloshina, the mistress of Peredonov, awaited him. She was dressed in a slovenly fashion, and her face was powdered and rouged.
Jam tarts were being baked in the oven for lunch: Peredonov was very fond of them. Varvara ran about the kitchen on her high heels, preparing everything for Peredonov’s arrival. Varvara was afraid that Natalya, the stout, freckled servant-maid, would steal one of the tarts and possibly more. That was why Varvara did not leave the kitchen and, as she habitually did, was abusing the servant. Upon her wrinkled face, which still kept the remains of beauty, there was a continual expression of discontented maliciousness.
A feeling of gloom and irritation came over Peredonov, as always happened when he returned home. He entered the dining-room noisily, flung his hat on the windowsill, sat down at the table and shouted:
“Vara! Where’s my food?”
Varvara brought in the food, skilfully limping in her narrow, fashionable shoes, and waited upon Peredonov herself. When she brought the coffee Peredonov bent down to the steaming glass and smelt it. Varvara was disturbed and looked a little frightened; she asked:
“What’s the matter with you, Ardalyon Borisitch? Does the coffee smell of anything?”
Peredonov looked morosely at her and said:
“I’m smelling to see whether you haven’t put poison in it!”
“What’s the matter with you, Ardalyon Borisitch?” said Varvara again. “God help you, how did you get that into your head?”
“You mixed hemlock with it, perhaps,” he grumbled.
“What could I gain by poisoning you?” asked Varvara reassuringly. “Don’t make a fool of yourself.”
Peredonov continued smelling the coffee, but eventually became reassured.
“If it were poison,” he said, “you’d be able to tell by the heavy smell, but you have to put your nose right into the steam!”
He was silent a while and then suddenly said, spitefully and sarcastically:
“The Princess!”
Varvara looked distressed.
“What about the Princess?” asked Varvara.
“The Princess,” he said, “let her give me the job first and then I’ll get married—you write her that.”
“But you know, Ardalyon Borisitch,” Varvara began in a persuasive voice, “that the Princess had made her promise on condition that I marry first. Otherwise, it is awkward for me to ask on your behalf.”
“Write her that we’re already married,” said Peredonov, rejoicing in his sudden inspiration.
Varvara was for a moment disconcerted, but quickly recovered herself, and said:
“What’s the use of lying, the Princess might investigate. You’d better arrange the date for the marriage; it’s time to begin making the dress.”
“What dress?” demanded Peredonov, gruffly.
“Could anyone get married in these rags?” shouted Varvara. “You had better give me some money, Ardalyon Borisitch, for the dress.”
“Are you preparing yourself for your coffin?” asked Peredonov.
“You’re a beast, Ardalyon Borisitch!”
Peredonov suddenly felt a desire to provoke her still further. He asked her:
“Varvara, do you know where I’ve been?”
“Where?” she inquired anxiously.
“At Vershina’s,” he said, and burst out laughing.
“Well, you were in nice company, I must say!”
“I saw Marta,” Peredonov continued.
“She’s covered with freckles,” said Varvara, spitefully. “And she’s got a mouth that stretches from ear to ear. You might as well sew up her mouth, like a frog’s.”
“Anyway, she’s handsomer than you,” said Peredonov. “I think I’ll take her and marry her.”
“You dare marry her,” shouted Varvara, reddening and trembling with rage, “and I’ll burn her eyes out with vitriol!”
“I’d like to spit on you,” said Peredonov, quite calmly.
“Just try it!” said Varvara.
“Well, I will,” answered Peredonov.
He rose, and with a sluggish and indifferent expression, spat in her face.
“Pig!” said Varvara, as quietly as if his spitting on her had refreshed her. And she began to wipe her face with a table napkin. Peredonov was silent. Latterly he had been more brusque with her than usual. And even in the beginning he had never been particularly gentle with her. Encouraged by his silence, she repeated more loudly:
“Pig! You are a pig!”
Just then they heard in the next room the bleating of an almost sheep-like voice.
“Don’t make such a noise,” said Peredonov. “There’s someone coming.”
“It’s only Pavloushka,” answered Varvara.
Pavel Vassilyevitch Volodin entered with a loud, gay laugh. He was a young man who, face, manners and all, strangely resembled a young ram; his hair, like a ram’s, was curly; his eyes, protruding and dull; everything, about him, in fact, suggested a lively ram—a stupid young man. He was a carpenter by trade. He had first studied in a Manual Training School, but now was an instructor of the trade in the local school.
“How are you, old friend?” he said gaily. “You’re at home, drinking coffee, and here am I! Here we are together again!”
“Natashka, bring a third spoon,” shouted Varvara.
“Eat, Pavloushka,” said Peredonov, and it was evident that he was
