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