“Blockhead! Numskull!”
Doulebova sat motionless and made no sign that she heard this zealous hissing and these coarse words. She would give freedom to her tongue later, at luncheon.
A luncheon had been prepared for the visitors and the instructors. It cost Poterin’s wife much trouble and anxiety. The table was set in the large room, where on ordinary days the small boys made lively and wrangled in recess-time. They were excluded on this day, and raised a racket outside.
Doulebova sat at the head of the table, between the Vice-Governor and Zherbenev; Doulebov sat next to the Vice-Governor. A pie was brought in; then tea. Zinaida Grigorievna abused the instructors’ wives and the instructresses. She loved gossip—indeed, who does not? The instructors’ wives gossiped to her.
During the luncheon the small boys, having resumed their places in the neighbouring class, sang:
What songs, what songs,
Our Russia does sing.
Do what you like—though you burst,
Frenchman, you’ll never sing like that.
And other songs in the same spirit.
Doulebov wiped his face with his right hand—like a cat licking its paw—and piped out:
“I hear that the Marquis Teliatnikov is to pay us a visit soon.”
“We are not within his jurisdiction,” said Poterin.