"Let be, Matrena! Your tongue wags apace. First you should ask what manner of man it is."
"'Tis you who should say what you have done with your money."
Simon fumbled in his kaftan, drew out the notes and unrolled them.
"The money—there it is, but Trofimov has given me nothing, he said he would do so to-morrow."
Still angrier grew Matrena. He had not bought a pelisse, and he had given his last kaftan to some naked rascal, and even brought him home with him.
She took the paper money from the table, stowed it away about her person, and said:
"You'll get no supper from me. You can't afford to feed all the naked drunkards who run against you."
"Ah! Matrena, put a gag upon your tongue. Listen first of all to what people say to you."
"What! listen to reason from a drunken fool! Not in vain did I refuse to be your wife at first, you sot, you! My mother gave me lots of linen, you drank it away. You went to buy a pelisse—you drank that away too."
Simon wanted to explain to his wife that he had only drunk twenty kopecks' worth; he wanted to say how he had fallen in with the man; but Matrena didn't give him the chance of speaking a word or finding an answer, she spoke two words to his one. She even brought up against him again what had happened ten years before.
Matrena talked and talked, and then she made a dab at Simon and caught him by the sleeve.
"Give hither my jacket! That is all I have left,
206
