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 window-sill, 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
anxious to be hospitable to Volodin. "You know, old chap, I shall soon
get an inspector's billet--the Princess has promised Vara."
Volodin seemed pleased and laughed.
"And the future inspector is drinking coffee," he exclaimed, slapping
Peredonov on the back.
"And you think it's easy to get an inspector's job," said Peredonov.
"Once you're reported, that's the end of you."
"And who's going to report you?" asked Varvara.
"There are plenty to do that," said Peredonov. "They might say I'd been
reading Pisarev.[1] And there you are!"
"But, Ardalyon Borisitch, you ought to put Pisarev behind your other
books," advised Volodin, sniggering.
Peredonov glanced cautiously at Volodin and said:
"Perhaps I've never even had Pisarev. Won't you have a drink,
Pavloushka?"
Volodin stuck out his lower lip and made a significant face, like a man
who was conscious of his own value, and bent his head rather like a ram:
"I'm always ready to drink in company," he said, "but not on my
lonesome!"
And Peredonov was also always ready to drink. They drank their vodka
and ate the jam tarts afterwards.
Suddenly Peredonov splashed the dregs of his coffee-cup on the
wall-paper. Volodin goggled his sheepish eyes, and gazed in
astonishment. The wall-paper was soiled and torn. Volodin asked:
"What are you doing to your wall-paper?"
Peredonov and Varvara laughed.
"It's to spite the landlady," said Varvara. "We're leaving soon. Only
don't you chatter."
"Splendid!" shouted Volodin, and joined in the laughter.
Peredonov walked up to the wall and began to wipe the soles of his
boots on it. Volodin followed his example. Peredonov said:
"We always dirty the walls after every meal, so that they'll remember
us when we've gone!"
"What a mess you've made!" exclaimed Volodin, delightedly.
"Won't Irishka be surprised," said Varvara, with a dry, malicious laugh.
And all three, standing before the wall, began to spit at it, to tear
the paper, and to smear it with their boots. Afterwards, tired but
pleased, they ceased.
Peredonov bent down and picked up the cat, a fat, white, ugly beast. He
began to torment the animal, pulling its ears, and tail, and then shook
it by the neck. Volodin laughed gleefully and suggested other methods
of tormenting the animal.
"Ardalyon Borisitch, blow into his eyes! Brush his fur backwards!"
The cat snarled, and tried to get away, but dared not show its claws.
It was always thrashed for scratching. At last this amusement palled on
Peredonov and he let the cat go.
"Listen, Ardalyon Borisitch, I've got something to tell you," began
Volodin. "I kept thinking of it all the way here and now I'd almost
forgotten it."
"Well?" asked Peredonov.
"I know you like sweet things," said Volodin, "and I know one that will
make you lick your fingers!"
"There's nothing you could teach me about things to eat," remarked
Peredonov.
Volodin looked offended.
"Perhaps," he said, "you know all the good things that are made in your
village, but how can you know all the good things that are made in my
village, if you've never been there?"
And satisfied that this argument clinched the matter, Volodin laughed,
like a sheep bleating.
"In your village they gorge themselves on dead cats," said Peredonov.
"Permit me, Ardalyon Borisitch," said Volodin. "It is possible that in
your village they eat dead kittens. We won't talk about it. But surely
you've never eaten _erli_?"
"No, that's true," confessed Peredonov.
"What sort of food is that?" asked Varvara.
"It's this," explained Volodin, "You know what _koutia_[2] is?"
"Well, who doesn't know?" said Varvara.
"Well, this is what it is," went on Volodin. "Ground _koutia,_ raisins,
sugar and almonds. That's _erli_."
And Volodin began to describe minutely how they cook _erli_ in his
village. Peredonov listened to him in an annoyed way.
"_Koutia_," thought Peredonov, "why does he mention that? Does he want
me to be dead?"
Volodin suggested:
"If you'd like to have it done properly, give me the stuff, and I'll
cook it myself for you."
"Turn a goat into a vegetable garden," said Peredonov, gravely.
"He might drop some poison-powder into it," thought Peredonov.
Volodin was offended again.
"Now if you think, Ardalyon Borisitch, that I shall steal some of your
sugar, you're mistaken. I don't want your sugar!"
"Don't go on making a fool of yourself," interrupted Varvara. "You
know how particular he is. You'd better come here and do it."
"Yes, and you'll have to eat it yourself," said Peredonov.
"Why?" asked Volodin, his voice trembling with indignation.
"Because it's nasty stuff."
"As you like, Ardalyon Borisitch," said Volodin, shrugging his
shoulders. "I only wanted to please you, and if you don't want it, you
don't want it."
"Now tell us about the reprimand the General gave you," said Peredonov.
"What General?" asked Volodin, and flushed violently as he protruded an
offended lower lip.
"It's no use pretending. We've heard it," said Peredonov.
Varvara grinned.
"Excuse me, Ardalyon Borisitch," said Volodin, hotly. "Likely enough
you've heard about it, but you haven't heard the right story. Now I'll
tell you exactly what happened."
"Fire away," said Peredonov.
"It happened three days ago, about this time," began Volodin. "In our
school, as you know, repairs are going on in the workroom. And here,
if you please, comes in Veriga with our inspector to look around, and
we are working in the back room. So far, good. It doesn't matter what
Veriga wanted or why he came--that's no concern of mine. Suppose he is
a nobleman? Still he's no connection with our school. But that's no
concern of mine. He comes in, and we don't take any notice of him and
go on working. When suddenly they come into our room, and Veriga, if
you please, has his hat on."
"That was an insult to you," said Peredonov.
"But you must know," interrupted Volodin, eagerly. "There's an ikon
in our room, and we had our hats off. And he suddenly appears like
a Mohammedan dog. And I up and said to him quietly, and with great
dignity: 'Your Excellency,' I say to him, 'Will you be good enough to
take your hat off, because,' I say to him, 'there's an ikon in the
room.' Now, was that the right thing to say?" asked Volodin, opening
his eyes, questioningly.
"That was clever, Pavloushka," shouted Peredonov. "He got what he
deserved."
"Yes, that was quite proper," chimed in Varvara. "People like that
shouldn't be let off. You're a smart young fellow, Pavel Vassilyevitch."
Volodin, with an air of injured innocence, went on:
"And then he says to me: 'Each to his trade.' Then he turns and goes
out. That's all there was to it and nothing else."
Volodin nevertheless felt himself a hero. Peredonov, to mollify him,
gave him a caramel.
A new visitor arrived--Sofya Efimovna Prepolovenskaya, the wife
of the forester, a fat woman, with a face half good-natured, half
cunning--brisk in her movements. She sat down at the table and asked
Volodin slyly:
"Pavel Vassilyevitch, why do you come so often to visit Varvara
Dmitrievna?"
"I don't come to visit Varvara Dmitrievna," answered Volodin bashfully,
"but to see Ardalyon Borisitch."
"You haven't yet fallen in love with anyone?" asked Prepolovenskaya
with a laugh.
Everyone knew Volodin was looking for a wife with a dowry, offered
himself to many and was always rejected. Prepolovenskaya's joke seemed
to him out of place. In a manner resembling that of an injured sheep,
he said in a trembling voice:
"If I fell in love, Sofya Efimovna, that wouldn't concern anyone except
my own self and her. And in such an affair you wouldn't be considered."
But Prepolovenskaya refused to be suppressed.
"Suppose," she said, "that you fell in love with Varvara Dmitrievna,
who would make jam tarts for Ardalyon Borisitch?"
Volodin again protruded his lips and lifted his eyebrows. He was at a
loss what to say.
"Don't be faint-hearted, Pavel Vassilyevitch," Prepolovenskaya went on.
"Why aren't you engaged? You're young and handsome."
"Perhaps Varvara Dmitrievna wouldn't have me," said Volodin, sniggering.
"Why shouldn't she? You're much too timid!"
"And perhaps I wouldn't have her," said Volodin, in desperation.
"Perhaps I don't want to marry other people's cousins; perhaps I have a
cousin of my own in my village."
He was already beginning to believe that Varvara would marry him.
Varvara was angry; she considered Volodin a fool, and moreover, his
wages were only three-quarters of Peredonov's.
Prepolovenskaya wanted to marry Peredonov to her sister, the fat
daughter of a priest. That is why she tried to create a quarrel between
Peredonov and Varvara.
"Why are you trying to marry us?" asked Varvara, in an irritated way.
"You'd better try to marry your little fool of a sister to Pavel
Vassilyevitch."
"Why should I take him from you?" said Prepolovenskaya, jokingly.
Prepolovenskaya's jests gave a new turn to Peredonov's slow thoughts,
and the _erli_ had already taken possession of his mind. Why did
Volodin advise such a dish? Peredonov disliked thinking. He believed
at once everything he was told; that was why he began to believe that
Volodin was in love with Varvara. He thought: they would entangle
Varvara, and then when he left for the inspector's job, they would
poison him on the way with _erlis,_ and Volodin would take his place;
he would be buried as Volodin, and Volodin would become inspector. A
clever trick!
There was a sudden noise in the passage. Peredonov and Varvara were
frightened. Peredonov fixed his screwed-up eyes on the door. Varvara
crept up to the parlour door, looked in, then, just as quietly, on
tip-toe, balancing her arms and smiling in a distracted way, returned
to the table. From the passage came a noise and shrill outcries as if
two people were wrestling. Varvara whispered:
"That's Ershova, frightfully drunk. Natashka won't let her in and she's
trying to get into the parlour."
"What shall we do?" asked Peredonov, fearfully.
"I suppose we'd better go into the parlour," decided Varvara, "so that
she shan't get in here."
They entered the parlour and closed the door tightly behind them.
Varvara went into the passage in the faint hope of restraining the
landlady, or of persuading her to sit down in the kitchen. But the
insolent woman kept pushing her way in, propped herself up against the
door-post and poured out abusive compliments on the whole company.
Peredonov and Varvara fussed about her and tried to make her sit down
on a chair near the passage and farther from the dining-room. Varvara
brought her from the kitchen, on a tray, vodka, beer and some tarts,
but the landlady would not sit nor drink anything and kept on edging
towards the dining-room, but she could not exactly find the door. Her
face was red, her clothes were disordered, she was filthy and smelt of
vodka, even at a distance. She shouted:
"No! You must let me sit at your own table. I'll not have it on a tray.
I want it on a tablecloth. I'm the landlady and I will be respected.
Never mind if I'm drunk. I'm at least honest and a good wife to my
husband."
Varvara, smiling at once with contempt and fear, said: "Yes, we know."
Ershova winked at Varvara, laughed hoarsely and snapped her fingers
defiantly. She became more and more arrogant.
"Cousin!" she shouted. "We know the sort of cousin you are. Why doesn't
the Head-Master's wife come to see you, eh?"
"Don't make so much noise," said Varvara.
But Ershova began to shout even louder:
"How dare you order me about? I'm in my own house and I can do what I
please. If I like I can have you thrown out so that there'd not even be
a smell of you left behind. Only I'm too kind-hearted."
Meanwhile Volodin and Prepolovenskaya sat timidly at the window in
silence. Prepolovenskaya smiled slightly, looking at the shrew out of
the corner of her eye, but pretended that she was looking into the
street. Volodin sat with an injured expression on his face.
Ershova eventually became more good-humoured and gave Varvara a
friendly slap on the shoulder, saying with a drunken smile:
"Now listen to me. Put me at your table and treat me like a lady. Then
give me some _zhamochki_[3], and treat your landlady decently. Come, my
dear girl!"
"Here are some tarts," said Varvara.
"I don't want tarts!" shouted Ershova. "I want some _zhamochki_." And
she waved her hands. "The masters have them, and I want some too."
"I haven't any _zhamochki_ for you," answered Varvara, growing bolder
as the landlady became more good-tempered. "Now here's some tarts.
Gorge yourself!"
Ershova suddenly perceived the door into the dining-room, and cried out
furiously:
"Out of my way, viper!"
She pushed Varvara aside and threw herself towards the door. There was
no time to restrain her. Lowering her head and clenching her fists,
she broke into the dining-room, throwing back the door with a crash.
There she paused just inside the door and saw the soiled wall-paper.
She uttered a long "whew" of astonishment. She stood with her hands on
her hips and her legs crossed, shouting with rage:
"Then it's true that you're leaving!"
"Who put that into your head, Irinya Stepanovna?" said Varvara,
trembling. "We've no such idea. Someone's been fooling you."
"We're not going anywhere," declared Peredonov. "We're quite contented
here."
The landlady did not listen to them, she walked up to the
panic-stricken Varvara, and shook her fist in her face. Peredonov got
behind Varvara. He would have run away, but he wanted to see if Varvara
and the landlady would come to blows.
"I will step on one of your legs," exclaimed the landlady, furiously,
"and tear you in half with the other."
"Be quiet, Irinya Stepanovna," said Varvara, persuasively. "We have
visitors."
"You can bring your visitors along too," said the landlady. "I'll do
the same to them."
She reeled and made a dash into the parlour, and suddenly changing her
demeanour and tactics she said quietly to Prepolovenskaya, bowing so
low before her that she almost fell on the floor:
"My dear lady, Sofya Efimovna, forgive a drunken old woman; I have
something I'd like to say to you. You come to visit these people and
yet you don't know that they're gossiping about your sister. And who
to, d'you suppose? Me! A bootmaker's drunken wife! And why? So I'd tell
everyone--that's why!"
Varvara grew purple in the face and said:
"I said nothing of the sort."
"You didn't? Do you mean to deny it, you mean cat?" shouted Ershova,
coming up to Varvara, with clenched fists.
"Be quiet, will you?" muttered Varvara, in confusion.
"No," said the landlady, spitefully, "I won't be quiet," and she turned
again to Prepolovenskaya. "Do you know what she says, the little
beast? She tried to make out that your sister is carrying on with your
husband!"
Sofya's sly eyes gleamed angrily at Varvara; she rose and said with a
feigned laugh:
"Thank you humbly, I didn't expect that."
"Liar!" screamed Varvara, turning on Ershova.
Ershova gave an angry exclamation, stamped her foot, shook her hand at
Varvara, and turned again to Prepolovenskaya.
"Yes, and do you know what he says about you, ma'am? He makes out that
you carried on before you met your husband. That's the sort of dirty
people they are! Spit in their mugs, my good lady! It's no use having
anything to do with such low creatures!"
Prepolovenskaya flushed, and went silently into the passage. Peredonov
ran after her, trying to explain:
"She's lying, don't believe her. I only said once before her that you
were a fool and that was in a spiteful mood. But more than that, honest
to God, I never said anything. She invented it."
Prepolovenskaya reassured him:
"Don't think about it, Ardalyon Borisitch, I can see myself that she's
drunk and babbling. Only, why do you permit this in your house?"
"Well, what's to be done with her?" asked Peredonov.
Prepolovenskaya, confused and angry, was putting on her jacket.
Peredonov did not offer to help her. He kept on mumbling excuses, but
she paid no attention to him. He returned to the parlour. Ershova began
to reproach him loudly, while Varvara ran out on the verandah to try
and mollify Prepolovenskaya:
"You know yourself what a fool he is, he sometimes says anything that
comes into his head."
"All right, all right! Don't mention it," replied Prepolovenskaya. "A
drunken woman might babble anything."
Tall, dense nettles grew in the yard near the verandah. Prepolovenskaya
smiled slightly and the last shadow of displeasure vanished from her
plump white face. She became affable again towards Varvara. She would
be revenged without an open quarrel. Together they went into the garden
to wait until the landlady's eruption was over.
Prepolovenskaya kept looking at the nettles which grew in abundance
along the garden fence. She said at last:
"You have enough nettles here. Don't you find any use for them?"
Varvara laughed and answered:
"What an idea! What could I do with them?"
"If you don't mind, I'd like to take some with me, as I haven't any."
"What will you do with them?" asked Varvara, in astonishment.
"Oh, I'll find a use for them," said Prepolovenskaya, smiling.
"But, my dear, do tell me for what?" entreated Varvara, inquisitively.
Prepolovenskaya, bending towards Varvara, whispered in her ear:
"By rubbing your body with nettles, you keep fat. That's why my
Genichka is so plump."
It was well known that Peredonov preferred fat women, and that he
detested thin ones. Varvara was distressed because she was thin and was
growing still thinner. How could she get a little plumper?--was one of
her chief worries. She used to ask everyone: "Do you know any remedy
for thinness?" And now Prepolovenskaya was convinced that Varvara would
follow her suggestion and rub herself with nettles, and in this way be
her own punisher.
[1] Pisarev (1840-68), a revolutionary writer and a precursor of
Nihilism.
[2] A kind of rice pudding eaten at funerals in Russia.
[3] _Zhamochki_, an apparently invented word, meaning something
particularly nice to eat.