‘No, no! There’s Tentelyev now, that’s a different matter,’ roared Bambaev with all the force of his lungs.
Madame Suhantchikov was silent for a moment.
‘I know for a fact about that gentleman,’ he continued in his ordinary voice, ‘that when he was summoned before the secret police, he grovelled at the feet of the Countess Blazenkrampff and kept whining, “Save me, intercede for me!” But Pelikanov never demeaned himself to baseness like that.’
‘Mm ... Tentelyev ...’ muttered Gubaryov, ‘that ... that ought to be noted.’
Madame Suhantchikov shrugged her shoulders contemptuously.
‘They’re one worse than another,’ she said, ‘but I know a still better story about Tentelyev. He was, as every one knows, a most horrible despot with his serfs, though he gave himself out for an emancipator. Well, he was once at some friend’s house in Paris, and suddenly in comes Madame Beecher Stowe—you know, Uncle Tom’s Cabin. Tentelyev, who’s an awfully pushing fellow, began asking the host to present him; but directly she heard his name. “What?” she said, “he presumes to be introduced to the author of Uncle Tom?” And she gave him a slap on the cheek! “Go away!” she says, “at once!” And what do you think? Tentelyev took his hat and slunk away, pretty crestfallen.’
Mrs. Beecher Stowe.
‘Come, I think that’s exaggerated,’ observed Bambaev. ‘“Go away” she certainly did say, that’s a fact, but she didn’t give him a smack!’