I’m afraid that Varya would cause a big scandal.”
“If you’re afraid of a scandal, then this is what you should do,” Rutilov said with a cunning smile. “Get married right away
today, or even tomorrow. You show up at home with your young wife and, quick as a wink, it’ll be over. Really, if you want
I’ll go and throw it together quick—for tomorrow evening? Which one do you want?”
Peredonov suddenly burst into loud and fitful laughter.
“What about it? Is it a deal?” Rutilov asked.
Peredonov stopped laughing just as suddenly and said sullenly, quietly, almost in a whisper:
“She’ll inform on me, the shrew.”
“She won’t inform about anything, there’s nothing to inform about,” Rutilov tried to convince him.
“Or she’ll poison me,” Peredonov whispered fearfully.
“You just leave everything to me,” Rutilov pressed him heatedly. “I’ll fix everything up for you just right …”
“I’m not getting married without a dowry,” Peredonov cried angrily.
Rutilov was not amazed in the least by the new jump in the thoughts of his sullen companion. Hit protested with the same animation:
“You queer fellow, do you really think they have no dowry! Well, are you satisfied then? I’ll run along and get everything
organized. Only mind you, not so much as a whisper to anyone, you hear!”
He shook Peredonov’s hand and ran off. Peredonov stared silently after him. He recollected the yang Rutilov ladies, cheerful
and derisive. An immodest thought produced the foul likeness of a smile on his lips. It appeared only for an instant and disappeared.
A vague anxiety arose inside him.
“What am I supposed to do about the Princess?” he thought. “There’s not a kopeck or any patron age backing them up, but with
Varvara I’ll get to be an inspector and later I’ll be made a headmaster.”
He glanced after Rutilov who was busily dashing off and thought maliciously:
“Let him run around.”
That thought brought a listless and dull pleasure. But he grew bored of being alone. He pushed his hat down over his forehead,
knit his light-cooled brows and hastily made off in the direction of home through the unpaved deserted streets that were overgrown
with grass that had been trumpled into the dirt, wild radish and pearlwort with its white flowers.
Someone called him in a
quiet and quick voice:
“Ardalyon Borisych, come in and visit us.”
Peredonov raised his gloomy eyes and glanced angrily over the hedge. Standing in the garden behind the gate was Natalya Afanasyevna
Vershina, a small, thin, dark-skinned woman, dressed all in black, black, browed and black-eyed. She was smoking a cigarette
in a dark cherry-wood holder and smiling slightly as though she knew something that couldn’t be said but that was worth smiling
over. She was urging Peredonov into her garden not so much with words as with light, quick movements: she opened the gate,
stood to the side, smiled entreatingly andat the same time confidently indicated with her hands as though to say: “Come in, why stand there?”
And Peredonov did enter, submitting to her soundless almost spellbinding movements. But he immediately stopped on the sandy
path where he caught sight of the broken pieces of dry twigs and glanced at his watch.
“It’s time for lunch,” he grumbled.
Although the watch had served him for a long while, he gazed with pleasure at its large gold case just as he always did in
the presence of people. It was twenty minutes to twelve. Peredonov decided that he could spend a little time. He sullenly
followed Vershina along the paths, past the barren bushes of black and red currant, raspberry and gooseberry.
The garden had turned yellow and was a colorful profusion of fruit and late flowers. Here were many fruit and ordinary trees
as well as bushes: low spreading apple, round-leaved pear, lindens, cherry with smooth shiny leaves, plum, honeysuckle. Red
berries glistened on the
“If you’re afraid of a scandal, then this is what you should do,” Rutilov said with a cunning smile. “Get married right away
today, or even tomorrow. You show up at home with your young wife and, quick as a wink, it’ll be over. Really, if you want
I’ll go and throw it together quick—for tomorrow evening? Which one do you want?”
Peredonov suddenly burst into loud and fitful laughter.
“What about it? Is it a deal?” Rutilov asked.
Peredonov stopped laughing just as suddenly and said sullenly, quietly, almost in a whisper:
“She’ll inform on me, the shrew.”
“She won’t inform about anything, there’s nothing to inform about,” Rutilov tried to convince him.
“Or she’ll poison me,” Peredonov whispered fearfully.
“You just leave everything to me,” Rutilov pressed him heatedly. “I’ll fix everything up for you just right …”
“I’m not getting married without a dowry,” Peredonov cried angrily.
Rutilov was not amazed in the least by the new jump in the thoughts of his sullen companion. Hit protested with the same animation:
“You queer fellow, do you really think they have no dowry! Well, are you satisfied then? I’ll run along and get everything
organized. Only mind you, not so much as a whisper to anyone, you hear!”
He shook Peredonov’s hand and ran off. Peredonov stared silently after him. He recollected the yang Rutilov ladies, cheerful
and derisive. An immodest thought produced the foul likeness of a smile on his lips. It appeared only for an instant and disappeared.
A vague anxiety arose inside him.
“What am I supposed to do about the Princess?” he thought. “There’s not a kopeck or any patron age backing them up, but with
Varvara I’ll get to be an inspector and later I’ll be made a headmaster.”
He glanced after Rutilov who was busily dashing off and thought maliciously:
“Let him run around.”
That thought brought a listless and dull pleasure. But he grew bored of being alone. He pushed his hat down over his forehead,
knit his light-cooled brows and hastily made off in the direction of home through the unpaved deserted streets that were overgrown
with grass that had been trumpled into the dirt, wild radish and pearlwort with its white flowers.
Someone called him in a
quiet and quick voice:
“Ardalyon Borisych, come in and visit us.”
Peredonov raised his gloomy eyes and glanced angrily over the hedge. Standing in the garden behind the gate was Natalya Afanasyevna
Vershina, a small, thin, dark-skinned woman, dressed all in black, black, browed and black-eyed. She was smoking a cigarette
in a dark cherry-wood holder and smiling slightly as though she knew something that couldn’t be said but that was worth smiling
over. She was urging Peredonov into her garden not so much with words as with light, quick movements: she opened the gate,
stood to the side, smiled entreatingly andat the same time confidently indicated with her hands as though to say: “Come in, why stand there?”
And Peredonov did enter, submitting to her soundless almost spellbinding movements. But he immediately stopped on the sandy
path where he caught sight of the broken pieces of dry twigs and glanced at his watch.
“It’s time for lunch,” he grumbled.
Although the watch had served him for a long while, he gazed with pleasure at its large gold case just as he always did in
the presence of people. It was twenty minutes to twelve. Peredonov decided that he could spend a little time. He sullenly
followed Vershina along the paths, past the barren bushes of black and red currant, raspberry and gooseberry.
The garden had turned yellow and was a colorful profusion of fruit and late flowers. Here were many fruit and ordinary trees
as well as bushes: low spreading apple, round-leaved pear, lindens, cherry with smooth shiny leaves, plum, honeysuckle. Red
berries glistened on the
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