Part 34

“I did not expect that you,” he began in his severe manner, “with your enlightened mind—I’ve heard that you are a follower of Voltaire—could be amused with what ought to be an object for compassion—with deformity!” Here he remembered Paklin’s sister and could have bitten his tongue off.

Fomishka went red in the face and muttered: “You see ... it is not my fault ... she herself——”

Pufka simply flew at Markelov.

“How dare you insult our masters?” she screamed out in her lisping voice. “What is it to you that they took me in, brought me up, and gave me meat and drink? Can’t you bear to see another’s good fortune, eh? Who asked you to come here? You fusty, musty, black-faced villain with a moustache like a beetle’s!” Here Pufka indicated with her thick short fingers what his moustache was like; while Nurse Vassilievna’s toothless mouth was convulsed with laughter, re-echoed in the adjoining room.

“I am not in a position to judge you,” Markelov went on. “To protect the homeless and deformed is a very praiseworthy work, but I must say that to live in ease and luxury, even though without injury to others, not lifting a finger to help a fellow-creature, does not require a great deal of goodness. I, for one, do not attach much importance to that sort of virtue!”

Here Pufka gave forth a deafening howl. She did not understand a word of what Markelov had said, but she felt that the “black one” was scolding, and how dared he! Vassilievna also muttered something, while Fomishka folded his hands across his breast and turned to his wife. “Fimishka, my darling,” he began, almost in tears; “do you hear what the gentleman is saying? We are both wicked sinners, Pharisees.... We are living on the fat of the land, oh! oh! oh! We ought to be turned out into the street... with a broom in our hands to work for our living! Oh! oh!”

At these mournful words Pufka howled louder than ever, while Fimishka screwed up her eyes, opened her lips, drew in a deep breath, ready to retaliate, to speak.

God knows how it would have ended had not Paklin intervened.

“What is the matter?” he began, gesticulating with his hands and laughing loudly. “I wonder you are not ashamed of yourselves! Mr. Markelov only meant it as a joke. He has such a solemn face that it sounded a little severe and you took him seriously! Calm yourself! Efimia Pavlovna, darling, we are just going, won’t you tell us our fortunes at cards? You are such a good hand at it. Snandulia, do get the cards, please!”

Fimishka glanced at her husband, who seemed completely reassured, so she too quieted down.

“I have quite forgotten how to tell fortunes, my dear. It is such a long time since I held the cards in my hand.”

But quite of her own accord she took an extraordinary, ancient pack of cards out of Snandalia’s hand.

“Whose fortune shall I tell?”

“Why everybody’s, of course!” Paklin exclaimed. “What a dear old thing she is.... You can do what you like with her,” he thought. “Tell us all our fortunes, granny dear,” he said aloud. “Tell us our fates, our characters, our futures, everything!”

She began shuffling the cards, but threw them down suddenly.

“I don’t need cards!” she exclaimed. “I know all your characters without that, and as the character, so is the fate. This one,” she said, pointing to Solomin, “is a cool, steady sort of man. That one,” she said, pointing threateningly at Markelov, “is a fiery, disastrous man.” (Pufka put her tongue out at him.) “And as for you,” she looked at Paklin, “there is no need to tell you—you know quite well that you’re nothing but a giddy goose! And that one—”

She pointed to Nejdanov, but hesitated.

“Well?” he asked; “do please tell me what sort of a man I am.”

“What sort of a man are you,” Fimishka repeated slowly. “You are pitiable—that is all!”

“Pitiable! But why?”

“Just so. I pity you—that is all I can say.”

“But why do you pity me?”

“Because my eyes tell me so. Do you think I am a fool? I am cleverer than you, in spite of your red hair. I pity you—that is all!”

There was a brief silence—they all looked at one another, but did not utter a word.

“Well, goodbye, dear friends,” Paklin exclaimed. “We must have bored you to death with our long visit. It is time for these gentlemen to be going, and I am going with them. Goodbye, thanks for your kindness.”

“Goodbye, goodbye, come again. Don’t be on ceremony,” Fomishka and Fimishka exclaimed together. Then Fomishka suddenly drawled out:

“Many, many, many years of life. Many—”

“Many, many,” Kalliopitch chimed in quite unexpectedly, when opening the door for the young men to pass out.