Another half-hour passed in silence and peace. The Neva was tossed aside onto the sofa and Pavel Vasilitch, with one finger raised aloft, was reciting Latin poetry he had learned in his youth. Stepa was watching his father’s finger with its wedding-ring and dozing as he listened to the words he could not understand. He rubbed his heavy eyes with his fist but they kept closing tighter and tighter each time.
“I’m going to bed!” he said at last, stretching and yawning.
“What? To bed?” cried Pelagia Ivanovna. “Won’t you eat your meat for the last time before Lent?”
“I don’t want any meat.”
“Have you taken leave of your senses?” his startled mother exclaimed. “How can you say that? You won’t have any meat after to-night for the whole of Lent!”
Pavel Vasilitch was startled, too.
“Yes, yes, sonny,” he cried. “Your mother will give you nothing but Lenten fare for seven weeks after to-night. This won’t do. You must eat your meat!”
“But I want to go to bed!” whimpered Stepa.
“Then bring in the supper quick!” cried Pavel Vasilitch in a flutter. “Anna, what are you doing in there, you old slow-coach? Come quick and bring in the supper!”
Pelagia Ivanovna threw up her hands and rushed into the kitchen as if the house were afire.