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"Stepan, come over here," called Foma. "Peasant!" Zvantzev hurled with contempt, looking at Foma. Foma shrugged his shoulders and made a step toward him; but suddenly a thought flashed vividly through his mind! He smiled maliciously and inquired of Stepan, softly: "The string of rafts is moored in three places, isn't it? "In three, of course!" "Cut the connections!" "And they?" "Keep quiet! Cut!"
"No, the water is cold," replied Zvantzev, shrinking at her glance. "As you please!" The woman shrugged her shoulders. "But it is about time you did it, and then, there's also plenty of water now, so that you wouldn't spoil it all with your rotten body." "Fie, how witty!" hissed the youth, turning away from her, and added with contempt: "In Russia even the prostitutes are rude."
Pavlinka went away to the edge of the raft and, standing there, threw orange peels into the water. "I never before participated in such an absurd outing and company," said Zvantzev, to his neighbour, plaintively. And Foma watched him with a smile, delighted that this feeble and ugly-looking man felt bored, and that Sasha had insulted him. Now and then he cast at her a kind glance of approval.
And she sings, with all her veins that is to say, so you might just lie down and die with sorrow! Well, that's a lady." "That was sung very well!" said Ookhtishchev in a drunken voice. "No, the devil knows what this is!" Zvantzev suddenly shouted, almost crying, irritated as he jumped up from the table. "I've come out here for a good time.
I want to enjoy myself, and here they perform a funeral service for me! What an outrage! I can't stand this any longer. I'm going away!" "Jean, I am also going. I'm weary, too," announced the gentleman with the side whiskers. "Vassa," cried Zvantzev to his lady, "dress yourself!" "Yes, it's time to go," said the red-haired lady to Ookhtishchev. "It is cold, and it will soon be dark." "Stepan!
"Foma Ignatyevich!" said Ookhtishchev in a faint, but sober voice, "look out, this is a dangerous joke. I'll make a complaint." "When you are drowned? You may complain!" answered Foma, cheerfully. "You are a murderer!" exclaimed Zvantzev, sobbing. But at this time a ringing splash of water was heard as though it groaned with fright or with astonishment.
And he smiled apologetically. "Come, let's sing something together, you and I." "How can we? Am I a match for you?" "Well, strike up!" "May I sit down?" "Come over here, to the table." "How lively this is!" exclaimed Zvantzev, wrinkling his face. "If you find it tedious, go and drown yourself," said Sasha, angrily flashing her eyes at him.
The young Zvantzev wore eyeglasses, was thin and pale, and when he stood, the calves of his legs were forever trembling as though they were disgusted at supporting the feeble body, clad in a long, checked top-coat with a cape, in whose folds a small head in a jockey cap was comically shaking.
Sasha, her head resting on his shoulder, was softly whispering into his ear something at which he blushed and was confused, for he felt that she was kindling in him the desire to embrace this woman and kiss her unceasingly. Aside from her, none of those assembled there interested him while Zvantzev and the gentleman with the side whiskers were actually repulsive to him. "What are you staring at?
ON the third day after the scene in the club, Foma found himself about seven versts from the town, on the timber-wharf of the merchant Zvantzev, in the company of the merchant's son of Ookhtishchev a sedate, bald-headed and red-nosed gentleman with side whiskers and four ladies.
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