“That’s reasonable, Pavel Vassilyevitch,” said Routilov encouragingly.
“Pavel Vassilyevitch can stand up for himself,” said Prepolovenskaya with a sly smile. Varvara had just cut off a piece of bread and, absorbed by Volodin’s ingenious remarks, held the knife in the air. The edge glittered. Peredonov felt a sudden fear—she might suddenly take it into her head to slash him.
“Varvara!” he exclaimed. “Put that knife down!”
Varvara shivered.
“Why do you shout so? You frightened me,” she said, and put the knife down. “He has his whims, you know,” she went on, speaking to the silent Prepolovensky, who was stroking his beard and apparently about to speak.
“That sometimes happens,” said Prepolovensky; “I had an acquaintance who was afraid of needles. He was always imagining that someone was going to stick a needle into him and that the needle would enter his inside. Just imagine how frightened he would get when he saw a needle—”
And once he had begun to speak he was quite unable to stop, and went on telling the same story with different variations until someone interrupted him and changed the subject. Then he lapsed again into silence.
Grushina changed the conversation to erotic themes. She began to relate how her deceased husband was jealous of her, and how she deceived him. Afterwards she told a story she had heard from an acquaintance in the capital about the mistress of a certain eminent personage who met her patron while driving in the street.
“And she cries to him: ‘Hullo, Zhanchick!’ ” Grushina related, “mind you, in the street.”
“I have a good mind to report you,” said Peredonov angrily. “Is it actually permitted for such nonsense to be talked about important people?”
Grushina gabbled rapidly to try and appease him:
“It’s not my fault. That’s how I heard the story. What I’ve bought I sell.”
Peredonov maintained an angry silence and drank tea from a saucer, with his elbows resting on the table. He reflected that in the house of the future inspector it was unbecoming to speak disrespectfully of the higher powers. He felt annoyed with Grushina. This feeling was intensified by his suspicion of Volodin, who too frequently referred to him as “the future inspector.” Once he even said to Volodin:
“Well, my friend, I see that you are jealous, but the fact is I’m going to be an inspector and you aren’t!”
Volodin, with an insinuating look on his face, had replied:
“Each to his own. You’re a specialist in your business and I in mine.”
“Our Natashka,” said Varvara, “went straight from us and got a place with the Officer of the gendarmes.”
Peredonov trembled, and his face had an expression of fear.
“Are you telling a lie?” he demanded.
“Why should I want to tell you a lie about that?” answered Varvara. “You can go and ask him yourself, if you like.”
This unpleasant news was confirmed by Grushina. Peredonov was stupefied with astonishment. It was impossible to know what she might say, and then the gendarmes would take up the matter and report it to the authorities. It was a bad lookout.
At the same second Peredonov’s eyes rested on the shelf under the sideboard. There stood several bound volumes: the thin ones were the works of Pisarev and the larger ones were the Annals of the Fatherland.11 Peredonov went pale and said:
“I must hide those books or I shall be reported.”
Earlier Peredonov had displayed these books ostentatiously to show that he was a man of emancipated ideas, though actually he had no ideas at all and no inclination towards reflection. And he only kept these books for show, not to read. It was now a long time since he had read a book—he used to say he had no time—he did not subscribe to a newspaper. He got his news from other people. In fact there was nothing he wanted to know—there was nothing in the outside world he was interested in. He used even to deride subscribers to newspapers as people who wasted both time and money. One might have thought that his time was very valuable!
He went up to the shelf, grumbling.
“That’s what happens in this town—you may get reported any minute. Lend a hand here, Pavel Vassilyevitch,” he said to Volodin.
Volodin walked towards him with a grave and comprehending countenance and carefully took the books that Peredonov handed to him. Peredonov, carrying a heap of books, went into the parlour, followed by Volodin, who carried a large pile.
“Where do you mean to hide them, Ardalyon Borisitch?” he asked.
“Wait and you’ll see,” replied Peredonov with his usual gruffness.
“What are you taking away there, Ardalyon Borisitch?” asked Prepolovensky.
“Most strictly forbidden books,” answered Peredonov from the door. “I should be reported if they were found here.”
Peredonov sat on his heels before the brick stove in the parlour. He threw down the books on the iron hearth and Volodin did the same. Peredonov began with difficulty to force book after book into the small opening. Volodin sat on his heels just behind Peredonov and handed him the books, preserving at the same time an air of profound comprehension on his sheepish face, his protruded lips and heavy forehead expressing his sense of importance. Varvara looked at them through the door. She said laughing:
“They’ve got a new joke!”
But Grushina interrupted her:
“No, dearest Varvara Dmitrievna, you shouldn’t say that. Things might be very unpleasant if they found out. Especially if it happens to be an instructor. The authorities are dreadfully afraid that the instructors will teach the boys to rebel.”
After tea they sat down to play Stoukolka,12 all seven of them around the card-table in the parlour. Peredonov played irritatedly and badly. After every twenty points, he had to pay out to the other players, especially to Prepolovensky, who received for himself and his wife. The Prepolovenskys won more frequently than anyone. They had certain signs, like knocks and coughs, by which they
