cker."

"How's auntie?"

"Pretty middling. The other day she went as midwife to the major's
lady. They gave her a rouble."

"Oh, indeed, a rouble. Hold your ear."

"I am holding it. . . . Mind you don't cut me. Oy, you hurt! You
are pulling my hair."

"That doesn't matter. We can't help that in our work. And how is
Anna Erastovna?"

"My daughter? She is all right, she's skipping about. Last week on
the Wednesday we betrothed her to Sheikin. Why didn't you come?"

The scissors cease snipping. Makar Kuzmitch drops his hands and
asks in a fright:

"Who is betrothed?"

"Anna."

"How's that? To whom?"

"To Sheikin. Prokofy Petrovitch. His aunt's a housekeeper in
Zlatoustensky Lane. She is a nice woman. Naturally we are all
delighted, thank God. The wedding will be in a week. Mind you come;
we will have a good time."

"But how's this, Erast Ivanitch?" says Makar Kuzmitch, pale,
astonished, and shrugging his shoulders. "It's . . . it's utterly
impossible. Why, Anna Erastovna . . . why I . . . why, I cherished
sentiments for her, I had intentions. How could it happen?"

"Why, we just went and betrothed her. He's a good fellow."

Cold drops of perspiration come on the face of Makar Kuzmitch. He
puts the scissors down on the table and begins rubbing his nose
with his fist.

"I had intentions," he says. "It's impossible, Erast Ivanitch. I
. . . I am in love with her and have made her the offer of my heart
. . . . And auntie promised. I have always respected you as though
you were my father. . . . I always cut your hair for nothing. . . .
I have always obliged you, and when my papa died you took the
sofa and ten roubles in cash and have never given them back. Do you
remember?"

"Remember! of course I do. Only, what sort of a match would you be,
Makar? You are nothing of a match. You've neither money nor position,
your trade's a paltry one."

"And is Sheikin rich?"

"Sheikin is a member of a union. He has a thousand and a half lent
on mortgage. So my boy . . . . It's no good talking about it, the
thing's done. There is no altering it, Makarushka. You must look
out for another bride. . . . The world is not so small. Come, cut
away. Why are you stopping?"

Makar Kuzmitch is silent and remains motionless, then he takes a
handkerchief out of his pocket and begins to cry.

"Come, what is it?" Erast Ivanitch comforts him. "Give over. Fie,
he is blubbering like a woman! You finish my head and then cry.
Take u