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"That's right!" the son persisted; "you don't like to hear the truth! Excellent! Very good! begin shouting! Excellent!" "Hold your tongue, I tell you!" roared Yevgraf Ivanovitch. Fedosya Semyonovna appeared in the doorway, very pale, with an astonished face; she tried to say something, but she could not, and could only move her fingers. "It's all your fault!" Shiryaev shouted at her.
The colour mounted slowly to his ears, from his ears to his temples, and by degrees suffused his whole face. Yevgraf Ivanovitch shifted in his chair and unbuttoned his shirt-collar to save himself from choking. He was evidently struggling with the feeling that was mastering him. A deathlike silence followed. The children held their breath.
"We have not come in to . . . er-er-er . . . supper, nor to see Yevgraf Kuzmitch. We have come to ask you, madam, where is Mark Ivanovitch whom you have murdered?" "What? What Mark Ivanovitch?" faltered the superintendent's wife, and her full face was suddenly in one instant suffused with crimson. "I . . . don't understand." "I ask you in the name of the law! Where is Klyauzov?
You are coarse... do you understand? You are coarse, ill-humoured, unfeeling. And the peasants can't endure you!" The student had by now lost his thread, and was not so much speaking as firing off detached words. Yevgraf Ivanovitch listened in silence, as though stunned; but suddenly his neck turned crimson, the colour crept up his face, and he made a movement. "Hold your tongue!" he shouted.
The young wife of our old police superintendent, Yevgraf Kuzmitch, Olga Petrovna; that's who it is! She bought that box of matches!" "You . . . you. . . . Are you out of your mind?" "It's very natural! In the first place she smokes, and in the second she was head over ears in love with Klyauzov. He rejected her love for the sake of an Akulka. Revenge.
YEVGRAF IVANOVITCH SHIRYAEV, a small farmer, whose father, a parish priest, now deceased, had received a gift of three hundred acres of land from Madame Kuvshinnikov, a general's widow, was standing in a corner before a copper washing-stand, washing his hands. As usual, his face looked anxious and ill-humoured, and his beard was uncombed. "What weather!" he said.
His sister Varvara was lying behind a screen with a headache, moaning faintly. His mother, with a look of amazement and guilt upon her face, was sitting beside her on a box, mending Arhipka's trousers. Yevgraf Ivanovitch was pacing from one window to another, scowling at the weather.
At your age I was earning my living, while you... Do you know what you cost me, you scoundrel? I'll turn you out! Wastrel!" "Yevgraf Ivanovitch," muttered Fedosya Semyonovna, moving her fingers nervously; "you know he... you know Petya...!" "Hold your tongue!" Shiryaev shouted out to her, and tears actually came into his eyes from anger. "It is you who have spoilt them you! It's all your fault!
He ought to have asked him for something more, for clothes, for lecture fees, for books, but after an intent look at his father he decided not to pester him further. The mother, lacking in diplomacy and prudence, like all mothers, could not restrain herself, and said: "You ought to give him another six roubles, Yevgraf Ivanovitch, for a pair of boots.
My Yevgraf Kuzmitch is not at home. . . . He is staying at the priest's. But we can get on without him. Sit down. Have you come from an inquiry?" "Yes. . . . We have broken one of our springs, you know," began Tchubikov, going into the drawing-room and sitting down in an easy-chair. "Take her by surprise at once and overwhelm her," Dyukovsky whispered to him.
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