blame her, it is all the same to her! Just look at her nose! Her nose alone is enough to make one faint. We sit here for whole days together and not a single word! She stands like a stuffed image and rolls the whites of her eyes at the water.'
The Englishwoman gave a yawn, put a new worm on, and dropped the hook into the water.
'I wonder at her not a little,' Gryabov went on, 'the great stupid has been living in Russia for ten years and not a word of Russian! . . . Any little aristocrat among us goes to them and learns to babble away in their lingo, while they . . . there's no making them out. Just look at her nose, do look at her nose!'
'Come, drop it . . . it's uncomfortable. Why attack a woman?'
'She's not a woman, but a maiden lady. . . . I bet she's dreaming of suitors. The ugly doll. And she smells of something decaying . . . . I've got a loathing for her, my boy! I can't look at her with indifference. When she turns her ugly eyes on me it sends a twinge all through me as though I had knocked my elbow on the parapet. She likes fishing too. Watch her: she fishes as though it were a holy rite! She looks upon everything with disdain . . . . She stands there, the wretch, and is conscious that she is a human being, and that therefore she is the monarch of nature. And do you know what her name is? Wilka Charlesovna Fyce! Tfoo! There is no getting it out!'
The Englishwoman, hearing her name, deliberately turned her nose in Gryabov's direction and scanned him with a disdainful glance; she raised her eyes from Gryabov to Otsov and steeped him in disdain. And all this in silence, with dignity and deliberation.
'Did you see?' said Gryabov chuckling. 'As though to say 'take that.' Ah, you monster! It's only for the children's sake that I keep that triton. If it weren't for the children, I wouldn't let her come within ten miles of my estate. . . . She has got a nose like a hawk's . . . and her figure! That doll makes me think of a long nail, so I could take her, and knock her into the ground, you know. Stay, I believe I have got a bite. . . .'
Gryabov jumped up and raised his rod. The line drew taut. . . . Gryabov tugged again, but could not pull out the hook.
'It has caught,' he said, frowning, 'on a stone I expect . . . damnation take it . . . .'
There was a look of distress on Gryabov's face. Sighing, moving uneasily, and muttering oaths, he began tugging at the line.
'What a pity; I shall have to go into the water.'
'Oh, chuck it!'
'I can't. . . . There's always good fishing in the evening. . . . What a nuisance. Lord, forgive us, I shall have to wade into the water, I must! And if only you knew, I have no inclination to undress. I shall have to get rid of the Englishwoman. . . . It's awkward to undress before her. After all, she is a lady, you know!'
Gryabov flung off his hat, and his cravat.
'Meess . . . er, er . . .' he said, addressing the Englishwoman, 'Meess Fyce, je voo pree . . . ? Well, what am I to say to her? How am I to tell you so that you can understand? I say . . . over there! Go away over there! Do you hear?'
Miss Fyce enveloped Gryabov in disdain, and uttered a nasal sound.
'What? Don't you understand? Go away from here, I tell you! I must undress, you devil's doll! Go over there! Over there!'
Gryabov pulled the lady by her sleeve, pointed her towards the bushes, and made as though he would sit down, as much as to say: Go behind the bushes and hide yourself there. . . . The Englishwoman, moving her eyebrows vigorously, uttered rapidly a long sentence in English. The gentlemen gushed with laughter.
'It's the first time in my life I've heard her voice. There's no denying, it is a voice! She does not understand! Well, what am I to do with her?'
'Chuck it, let's go and have a drink of vodka!'
'I can't. Now's the time to fish, the evening. . . . It's evening . . . . Come, what would you have me do? It is a nuisance! I shall have to undress before her. . . .'
Gryabov flung off his coat and his waistcoat and sat on the sand to take off his boots.
'I say, Ivan Kuzmitch,' said the marshal, chuckling behind his hand. 'It's really outrageous, an insult.'
'Nobody asks her not to understand! It's a lesson for these foreigners!'
Gryabov took off his boots and his trousers, flung off his undergarments and remained in the costume of Adam. Otsov held his sides, he turned crimson both from laughter and embarrassment. The Englishwoman twitched her brows and blinked . . . . A haughty, disdainful smile passed over her yellow face.
'I must cool off,' said Gryabov, slapping himself on the ribs. 'Tell me if you please, Fyodor Andreitch, why I have a rash on my chest every summer.'
'Oh, do get into the water quickly or cover yourself with something, you beast.'
'And if only she were confused, the nasty thing,' said Gryabov, crossing himself as he waded into the water. 'Brrrr . . . the water's cold. . . . Look how she moves her eyebrows! She doesn't go away . . . she is far above the crowd! He, he, he . . . . and she doesn't reckon us as human beings.'
Wading knee deep in the water and drawing his huge figure up to its full height, he gave a wink and said:
'This isn't England, you see!'
Miss Fyce coolly put on another worm, gave a yawn, and dropped the hook in. Otsov turned away, Gryabov released his hook, ducked into the water and, spluttering, waded out. Two minutes later he was sitting on the sand and angling as before.
NOTES
Albion: poetic name for England
Wilka Charlesovna Fyce: an awkward Russified version of her English name; the middle name means 'daughter of Charles'
AN INQUIRY
by Anton Chekhov
IT was midday. Voldyrev, a tall, thick-set country gentleman with a cropped head and prominent eyes, took off his overcoat, mopped his brow with his silk handkerchief, and somewhat diffidently went into the government office. There they were scratching away. . . .
'Where can I make an inquiry here?' he said, addressing a porter who was bringing a trayful of glasses from the furthest recesses of the office. 'I have to make an inquiry here and to take a copy of a resolution of the Council.'
'That way please! To that one sitting near the window!' said the porter, indicating with the tray the furthest window. Voldyrev coughed and went towards the window; there, at a green table spotted like typhus, was sitting a young man with his hair standing up in four tufts on his head, with a long pimply nose, and a long faded uniform. He was writing, thrusting his long nose into the papers. A fly was walking about near his right nostril, and he was continually stretching out his lower lip and blowing under his nose, which gave his face an extremely care-worn expression.
'May I make an inquiry about my case here . . . of you? My name is Voldyrev. and, by the way, I have to take a copy of the resolution of the Council of the second of March.'
The clerk dipped his pen in the ink and looked to see if he had got too much on it. Having satisfied himself that the pen would not make a blot, he began scribbling away. His lip was thrust out, but it was no longer necessary to blow: the fly had settled on his ear.
'Can I make an inquiry here?' Voldyrev repeated a minute later, 'my name is Voldyrev, I am a landowner. . . .'
'Ivan Alexeitch!' the clerk shouted into the air as though he had not observed Voldyrev, 'will you tell the merchant Yalikov when he comes to sign the copy of the complaint lodged with the police! I've told him a thousand times!'
'I have come in reference to my lawsuit with the heirs of Princess Gugulin,' muttered Voldyrev. 'The case is well known. I earnestly beg you to attend to me.'
Still failing to observe Voldyrev, the clerk caught the fly on his lip, looked at it attentively and flung it away.
