the other side of the door this was the conversation:

"Don't go on like that!" said Shchupkin, striking a match against
his checked trousers. "I never wrote you any letters!"

"I like that! As though I didn't know your writing!" giggled the
girl with an affected shriek, continually peeping at herself in the
glass. "I knew it at once! And what a queer man you are! You are a
writing master, and you write like a spider! How can you teach
writing if you write so badly yourself?"

"H'm! . . . That means nothing. The great thing in writing lessons
is not the hand one writes, but keeping the boys in order. You hit
one on the head with a ruler, make another kneel down. . . . Besides,
there's nothing in handwriting! Nekrassov was an author, but his
handwriting's a disgrace, there's a specimen of it in his collected
works."

"You are not Nekrassov. . . ." (A sigh). "I should love to marry
an author. He'd always be writing poems to me."

"I can write you a poem, too, if you like."

"What can you write about?"

"Love--passion--your eyes. You'll be crazy when you read it.
It would draw a tear from a stone! And if I write you a real poem,
will you let me kiss your hand?"

"That's nothing much! You can kiss it now if you like."

Shchupkin jumped up, and making sheepish eyes, bent over the fat
little hand that smelt of egg soap.

"Take down the ikon," Peplov whispered in a fluster, pale with
excitement, and buttoning his coat as he prodded his wife with his
elbow. "Come along, now!"

And without a second's delay Peplov flung open the door.

"Children," he muttered, lifting up his arms and blinking tearfully,
"the Lord bless you, my children. May you live--be fruitful--
and multiply."

"And--and I bless you, too," the mamma brought out, crying with
happiness. "May you be happy, my dear ones! Oh, you are taking from
me my only treasure!" she said to Shchupkin. "Love my girl, be good
to her. . . ."

Shchupkin's mouth fell open with amazement and alarm. The parents'
attack was so bold and unexpected that he could not utter a single
word.

"I'm in for it! I'm spliced!" he thought, going limp with horror.
"It's all over with you now, my boy! There's no escape!"

And he bowed his head submissively, as though to say, "Take me, I'm
vanquished."

"Ble-blessings on you," the papa went on, and he, too, shed tears.
"Natashenka, my daughter, stand by his side. Kleopatra, give me the
ikon."

But at this point the father sud