He put his hand out for the catalogue, of which Leonti kept a tight hold.
“The Gymnasium shall never get one of them,” he cried. “You don’t know the Director, who cares for books just about as much as I do for perfume and pomade. They will be destroyed, torn, and worse handled than by Mark.”
“Then take them.”
“To give away such treasures all in a minute. It would be comprehensible if you were selling them to responsible hands. I have never wanted so much to be rich. I would give five thousand. I cannot accept, I cannot. You are a spendthrift, or rather a blind, ignorant child—”
“Many thanks.”
“I didn’t mean that,” cried Leonti in confusion. “You are an artist; you need pictures, statues, music; and books are nothing to you. Besides, you don’t know what treasures you possess; after dinner I will show you.”
“Well, in the afternoon, instead of drinking coffee, you will go over with the books to the Gymnasium for me.”
“Wait, Boris, what was the condition on which you would give me the books. Will you take instalments from my salary for them? I would sell all I have, pledge myself and my wife.”
“No, thank you,” broke in Juliana Andreevna, “I can pledge or sell myself if I want to.”
Leonti and Raisky looked at one another.