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Updated: May 7, 2025
On the other side in the little drawing-room a love scene was apparently taking place between two persons: their daughter Natashenka and a teacher of the district school, called Shchupkin. "He's rising!" whispered Peplov, quivering with impatience and rubbing his hands.
And without a second's delay Peplov flung open the door. "Children," he muttered, lifting up his arms and blinking tearfully, "the Lord bless you, my children. May you live be fruitful and multiply." "And and I bless you, too," the mamma brought out, crying with happiness. "May you be happy, my dear ones! Oh, you are taking from me my only treasure!" she said to Shchupkin.
And if I write you a real poem, will you let me kiss your hand?" "That's nothing much! You can kiss it now if you like." Shchupkin jumped up, and making sheepish eyes, bent over the fat little hand that smelt of egg soap. "Take down the ikon," Peplov whispered in a fluster, pale with excitement, and buttoning his coat as he prodded his wife with his elbow. "Come along, now!"
The writing master raised himself and saw that he was saved; in her flutter the mamma had snatched from the wall the portrait of Lazhetchnikov, the author, in mistake for the ikon. Old Peplov and his wife stood disconcerted in the middle of the room, holding the portrait aloft, not knowing what to do or what to say. The writing master took advantage of the general confusion and slipped away.
Sasha, turning his head away to hide his angry despairing face, struggled to give a note of cordial welcome to his voice as he said: "It is jolly of you! Welcome to the cottage!" ILYA SERGEITCH PEPLOV and his wife Kleopatra Petrovna were standing at the door, listening greedily.
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