“Vermicelli soup, pastry with cabbage, then beef and potatoes.”
Tatiana Markovna laughed ironically, “Vermicelli soup and beef!”
“It’s a long time since you tasted such delicacies.”
“Excellent dishes,” said Tiet Nikonich kindly, “but heavy for the digestion.”
“To-morrow, Marfinka,” said the old lady, “we will entertain our guest with a gosling, pickled pork, carrots, and perhaps with a goose.”
“A goose, stuffed with groats, would be acceptable,” put in Raisky.
“Indigestible!” protested Tiet Nikonich. “The best is a light soup, with pearl barley, a cutlet, pastries and jelly; that is the proper midday meal.”
“Do you like mushrooms too, Cousin?” asked Marfinka. “Because we have so many.”
“Rather! Can’t we have them for supper tonight?”
In spite of Tiet Nikonich’s caution against this heavy food, Tatiana Markovna sent Marfinka to Peter and to the cook to order mushrooms for supper.
“If there is any champagne in the cellar, Granny, let us have a bottle up. Tiet Nikonich and I would like to drink your health. Isn’t that so, Tiet Nikonich?”
“Yes, to celebrate your arrival, though mushrooms and champagne are indigestible.”
“Tell the cook to bring champagne on ice, Marfinka,” said the old lady.
_“Ce que femme veut,”_ said Tiet Nikonich amiably, with a slight bow.
“Supper is a special occasion, but one ought to dine at home too. You have vexed your Grandmother by going out on the very day of your return.”
“Ah, Tatiana Markovna,” sighed Paulina Karpovna, “our ways here are so bourgeois, but in the capital....”
The old lady’s eyes blazed, as she pointed to the wall where hung the portraits of Raisky’s and the young girls’ parents, and exclaimed: “There was nothing bourgeois about those, Paulina Karpovna.”
“Granny,” said Raisky, “let us allow one another absolute freedom. I am now making up for my absence at midday, and shall be here all night. But I can’t tell where I shall dine to-morrow, or where I shall sleep.”
Paulina Karpovna could not refrain from applauding, but his aunt looked at him with amazement, and inquired if he were really a gipsy.
“Monsieur Raisky is a poet, and poets are as free as air,” remarked Paulina Karpovna. Again she made play with her eyes, shifted the pointed toes of her shoes in an effort to arouse Raisky’s attention. The more she twisted and turned, the more icy was his indifference, for her presence made an uncomfortable impression on him. Marfinka observed the by-play and smiled to herself.