VII
Before long, Aglaya’s parents arrived. It was after lunch. During lunch, Aglaya had waxed very merry at her husband’s expense. Then she went off to her room.
He went timidly into his study—it seemed huge to him now—scrambled up on to the ottoman, curled himself up in a corner and began crying. Burdensome perplexities tormented him.
Why should just he be overwhelmed by such a misfortune? It was dreadful, unheard of.
What utter folly.
He sobbed and whispered despairingly:
“Why, oh, why did I do it?”
Suddenly he heard familiar voices in the front room. He shook with horror. On tiptoe he crept to the washing-stand—they should not see his tear-stained eyes. Even to wash himself was difficult—he had to stand on a chair.
The guests had already entered the drawing-room. Saranin received them. He bowed, and in a piping voice made some unintelligible remark. Aglaya’s father looked at him blankly with wide-open eyes. He was big, stout, bull-necked and red-faced. Aglaya was at his heels.
He stood still before his son-in-law, and with legs wide apart, he eyed him attentively; he took Saranin’s hand cautiously, bent forward and said, lowering his voice:
“We have come to see you.”
It was obvious that his intention was to behave himself tactfully. He fidgeted with his feet on the floor.
From behind his back, Aglaya’s mother, a lean and malicious person, pushed forward. She exclaimed shrilly:
“Where is he, where? Show him to me, Aglaya, show me this Pygmalion.”
She looked over Saranin’s head. She purposely did not notice him. The flowers on her hat waggled strangely. She went straight up to Saranin. He squeaked and hopped on one side.
Aglaya began to cry and said:
“There he is, mama.”
“I’m here, mama,” squeaked Saranin, and shuffled his feet.
“You villain, what have you done to yourself? Why have you shrivelled up so?”
The servant-girl giggled.
“Don’t you giggle at your master, my good girl.”
Aglaya reddened.
“Mama, let’s go into the drawing-room.”
“No; tell me, you villain, for what purpose you’ve got so small?”
“Now then, mother, wait a bit,” the father interrupted her.
She turned on her husband as well.
“Didn’t I tell you not to let her marry a man without a beard. See, it’s turned out just as I said.”
The father looked cautiously at Saranin and did his utmost to change the conversation to politics.
“The Japanese,” he said, “are of no great size to speak of, but to all appearance they are a brainy race, and even, you might almost say, enterprising.”