“You are a handsome, healthy, sturdy lass,” said Stinging Beetle to Anna Akimovna.  “But I can’t make out for whose sake you are holding back.”

“What’s to be done if nobody will have me?”

“Or maybe you have taken a vow to remain a maid?” Stinging Beetle went on, as though she did not hear.  “Well, that’s a good deed. . . .  Remain one,” she repeated, looking intently and maliciously at her cards.  “All right, my dear, remain one. . . .  Yes . . . only maids, these saintly maids, are not all alike.”  She heaved a sigh and played the king.  “Oh, no, my girl, they are not all alike!  Some really watch over themselves like nuns, and butter would not melt in their mouths; and if such a one does sin in an hour of weakness, she is worried to death, poor thing! so it would be a sin to condemn her.  While others will go dressed in black and sew their shroud, and yet love rich old men on the sly.  Yes, y-es, my canary birds, some hussies will bewitch an old man and rule over him, my doves, rule over him and turn his head; and when they’ve saved up money and lottery tickets enough, they will bewitch him to his death.”

Varvarushka’s only response to these hints was to heave a sigh and look towards the ikons.  There was an expression of Christian meekness on her countenance.

“I know a maid like that, my bitterest enemy,” Stinging Beetle went on, looking round at every one in triumph; “she is always sighing, too, and looking at the ikons, the she-devil.  When she used to rule in a certain old man’s house, if one went to her she would give one a crust, and bid one bow down to the ikons while she would sing:  ‘In conception Thou dost abide a Virgin . . . !’ On holidays she will give one a bite, and on working days she will reproach one for it.  But nowadays I will make merry over her!  I will make as merry as I please, my jewel.”

Varvarushka glanced at the ikons again and crossed herself.

“But no one will have me, Spiridonovna,” said Anna Akimovna to change the conversation.  “What’s to be done?”

“It’s your own fault.  You keep waiting for highly educated gentlemen, but you ought to marry one of your own sort, a merchant.”

“We don’t want a merchant,” said Auntie, all in a flutter.  “Queen of Heaven, preserve us!  A gentleman will spend your money, but then he will be kind to you, you poor little fool.  But a merchant will be so strict that you won’t feel at home in your own house.  You’ll be wanting to fondle him and he will be counting his money, and when you sit down to meals with him, he’ll grudge you every mouthful, though it’s your own, the lout! . . .  Marry a gentleman.”

They all talked at once, loudly interrupting one another, and Auntie tapped on the table with the nutcrackers and said, flushed and angry: 

“We won’t have a merchant; we won’t have one!  If you choose a merchant I shall go to an almshouse.”