"May I leave now, uncle?"
"And what about a bite? What about dinner?
Did you really think your uncle would let you leave on an empty stomach?
Nay, nay.
We are not used to such things at Golovliovo.
Why, mother dear would have refused to look at me again if she knew I let my own niece go without a morsel.
Don't dare think of it. Why, it's impossible."
Again she had to surrender.
An hour and a half passed, but there were no signs of preparation for dinner.
Everybody was going about his business. Yevpraksia, her bunch of keys jingling, was seen in the yard darting between the pantry and the cellar. Porfiry Vladimirych was explaining things to his clerk, wearying him with meaningless orders and incessantly slapping his own thighs in an effort to while away the time.
Anninka, left to herself, walked up and down the dining-room, looked at the clock, counted her steps, then the ticks of the clock—one, two, three. At times she glanced out of the window and noticed the puddles were growing larger and larger.
Finally knives, forks and plates began to rattle. The butler Stepan entered the dining-room and spread a cloth upon the table.
It seemed as if a part of Yudushka's idle bustle had communicated itself to him.
He shuffled the plates sluggishly, breathed on the drinking glasses, and examined them, holding them up to the light.
Dinner began just at one o'clock.
"Well, so you are going," Porfiry Vladimirych opened the conversation, in a manner befitting the occasion.
Before him was a plate of soup, but he did not touch it. He looked at Anninka so affectionately that the tip of his nose turned red.
Anninka swallowed her soup hastily.
At last he took up his spoon and dipped it in the soup, but changed his mind, and placed it back on the tablecloth.
"I am an old man, you'll have to pardon me," he began nagging, "you swallowed your soup in a gulp, but I must take it slowly.
I don't like it when people are careless with God's gifts.
God gave us bread for sustenance, and look how much of it you have wasted. Look at all the crumbs you scattered.
Altogether, I like to do things thoroughly and carefully. It comes out safer in the end.
Maybe it annoys you that I am not quick enough, that I can't jump through a hoop, or whatever you call it. Well, what can I do? If you feel like being annoyed, go ahead.
I know you will be cross a little while and then forgive the old man.
Remember, you are not going to be young always. You will not be jumping through hoops all of your life. Life will give you experience and teach you wisdom. Then you will say, 'Maybe uncle was right after all.'
So, my dear, now while you listen to me, you probably think, 'Uncle is no good. Uncle is an old grouch.'
But if you live to my old age, you'll pipe a different tune. You'll say, 'Uncle was nice. Uncle was a dear. Uncle taught me right.'"
Porfiry Vladimirych crossed himself and swallowed two spoonfuls of soup, then put his spoon down and leaned back in his chair as a sign of an ensuing monologue.
"Bloodsucker!" was on the tip of her tongue, but she pulled herself up, poured out a glass of water, and drank it at a gulp.
Yudushka sensed her mental state.
"So, you don't like it? Well, like it or not, you'd better take uncle's advice.
I've been long meaning to talk to you about your hasty way of doing things, but I could not find the time to do it.
I don't like that haste in you. There is fickleness in it, a lack of judgment.
When you left your old grandmother, you had no business to leave her and cause the old woman anxiety. I really don't see why you did it."
"Oh, uncle, why recall it? It's done.
It isn't kind of you."
"Wait. That's not the point I'm making—kind or unkind—what I want to say is that even when a thing has been done, it can be undone, or done all over again.
Not only we mortals, but even God alters His deeds. Now He sends rain, now He sends fair weather.
So, suppose—really, the theatre isn't a good place—suppose you decide to stay."
"No, uncle, let's not speak about it, I beg of you."
"And there's another thing I want to tell you. Your fickleness is bad enough, but what is still worse is the way you slight the advice of your elders.
I speak for your own good and you say, 'Let's not speak about it.'
Uncle is kind and tender, and you snap at him.
But do you know who gave you your uncle?
Well, tell me—who?"
Anninka looked at him in perplexity.
"God gave you your uncle, that is who. God did it.
If not for God, you would now be all alone in the world, you would not know how to manage things, or how to file a petition or where to file it, and what to expect from it.
You would be lost in the woods. Anybody could deceive you, abuse you or even disgrace you.