Men -- Russia -- Fiction; Russia -- Social life and customs -- 20th century -- Fiction
“There’s very little vodka left, either,” added the soldier.
“All right! Damn you! You’ve still got a couple of roubles. Go and buy
what is wanted.”
“Please, sir, I haven’t got any money at all.”
“How’s that? What do you mean by lying?” exclaimed Sarudine, stopping
short.
“If you please, sir, I was told to pay the washerwoman one rouble and
seventy copecks, which I did, and I put the other thirty copecks on the
dressing-table, sir.”
“Yes, that’s right,” said Tanaroff, with assumed carelessness of
manner, though blushing for very shame, “I told him to do that
yesterday … the woman had been worrying me for a whole week, don’t you
know.”
Two red spots appeared on Sarudine’s scrupulously shaven cheeks, and
the muscles of his face worked convulsively. He silently resumed his
walk up and down the room and suddenly stopped in front of Tanaroff.
“Look here,” he said, and his voice trembled with anger, “I should be
much obliged if, in future, you would leave me to manage my own money-
affairs.”
Tanaroff’s face flushed crimson.
“H’m! A trifle like that!” he muttered, shrugging his shoulders.
“It is not a question of trifles,” continued Sarudine, bitterly, “it is
the principle of the thing. May I ask what right you …”
“I …” stammered Tanaroff.
“Pray don’t explain,” said Sarudine, in the same cutting tone. “I must
beg you not to take such a liberty again.”
Tanaroff’s lips quivered. He hung his head, and nervously fingered his
mother-of-pearl cigarette-holder. After a moment’s pause, Sarudine
turned sharply round, and, jingling the keys loudly, opened the drawer
of his bureau.
“There! go and buy what is wanted!” he said irritably, but in a calmer
tone, as he handed the soldier a hundred-rouble note.
“Very good, sir,” replied the soldier, who saluted and withdrew.
Sarudine pointedly locked his cash-box and shut the drawer of the
bureau. Tanaroff had just time to glance at the box containing the
fifty roubles which he needed so much, and then, sighing, lit a
cigarette. He felt deeply mortified, yet he was afraid to show this,
lest Sarudine should become more angry.
“What are two roubles to him?” he thought, “He knows very well that I
am hard up.”
Sarudine continued walking up and down obviously irritated, but
gradually growing calmer. When the servant brought in the beer, he
drank off a tumbler of the ice-cold foaming beverage with evident
gusto. Then as he sucked the end of his moustache, he said, as if
nothing had happened.
“Lida came again to see me yesterday, A fine girl, I tell you! As hot
as they make them.”
Tanaroff, still smarting, made no reply.
Sarudine, however, did not notice this, and slowly crossed the room,
his eyes laughing as if at some secret recollection. His strong,
healthy organism, enervated by the heat, was the more sensible to the
influence of exciting thought. Suddenly he laughed, a short laugh; it
was as if he had neighed. Then he stopped.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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