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"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!
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."
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 was a burning sensation inside him, and his heart throbbed uneasily; he had a longing now to get a Serbian order. It was a painful, passionate longing. A FINE carriage with rubber tyres, a fat coachman, and velvet on the seats, rolled up to the house of a landowner called Gryabov. Fyodor Andreitch Otsov, the district Marshal of Nobility, jumped out of the carriage.
"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."
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.
Looking down from the steep bank and catching sight of Gryabov, Otsov gushed with laughter. . . . Gryabov, a large stout man, with a very big head, was sitting on the sand, angling, with his legs tucked under him like a Turk. His hat was on the back of his head and his cravat had slipped on one side.
"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.
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!"
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.
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