“And that’s splendid ... And fine
and charming,” Lichonin was saying, bustling
about the lame table and without need shifting the
tea things from one place to another. “For
a long time, like an old crocodile, I haven’t
drunk tea as it should be drunk, in a Christian manner,
in a domestic setting. Sit down, Liuba, sit down,
my dear, right here on the divan, and keep house.
Vodka, in all probability, you don’t drink of
a morning, but I, with your permission, will drink
some ... This braces up the nerves right off.
Make mine a little stronger, please, with a piece of
lemon. Ah, what can taste better than a glass
of hot tea, poured out by charming feminine hands?”
Liubka listened to his chatter, a trifle too noisy
to seem fully natural; and her smile, in the beginning
mistrusting, wary, was softening and brightening.
But she did not get on with the tea especially well.
At home, in the backwoods village, where this beverage
was still held a rarity, the dainty luxury of well-to-do
families, to be brewed only for honored guests and
on great holidays—there over the pouring
of the tea officiated the eldest man of the family.
Later, when Liubka served with “all found”
in the little provincial capital city, in the beginning
at a priest’s, and later with an insurance agent
(who had been the first to put her on the road of
prostitution)—she was usually left some
strained, tepid tea, which had already been drunk off,
with a bit of gnawn sugar, by the mistress herself—the
thin, jaundiced, malicious wife of the priest; or
the wife of the agent, a fat, old, wrinkled, malignant,
greasy, jealous and stingy common woman. Therefore,
the simple business of preparing the tea was now as
difficult for her as it is difficult for all of us
in childhood to distinguish the left hand from the
right, or to tie a rope in a small noose. The
bustling Lichonin only hindered her and threw her
into confusion.
“My dear, the art of brewing tea is a great
art. It ought to be studied at Moscow. At
first a dry teapot is slightly warmed up. Then
the tea is put into it and is quickly scalded with
boiling water. The first liquid must at once
be poured off into the slop-bowl—the tea
thus becomes purer and more aromatic; and by the way,
it’s also known that Chinamen are pagans and
prepare their herb very filthily. After that
the tea-pot must be filled anew, up to a quarter of
its volume; left on the tray, covered over with a
towel and kept so for three and a half minutes.
Afterwards pour in more boiling water almost up to
the top, cover it again, let it stay just a bit, and
you have ready, my dear, a divine beverage; fragrant,
refreshing, and strengthening.”
The homely, but pleasant-looking face of Liubka, all
spotted from freckles, like a cuckoo’s egg,
lengthened and paled a little.
“Well, for God’s sake, don’t you
be angry at me ... You’re called Vassil
Vassilich, isn’t that so? Don’t get
angry, darling Vassil Vassilich. Really, now,
I’ll learn fast, I’m quick. And why
do you say you and you [Footnote: In contradistinction
to “thou,” as used to familiars and inferiors
in Russia.—Trans] to me all the time?
It seems that we aren’t strangers now?”
