‘I beg your pardon, Sarkizov is a liar, certainly. He filched the very pall of brocade off his dead father’s coffin. I will never dispute that; but Praskovya Yakovlovna—there’s no comparison! Remember how magnanimously she parted from her husband! But you, I know, are always ready——’
‘Come, enough, enough, Matrona Semyonovna,’ said Bambaev, interrupting her, ‘let us give up this tittle-tattle, and take a loftier flight. I am not new to the work, you know. Have you read Mlle. de la Quintinie? That’s something charming now! And quite in accord with your principles at the same time!’
‘I never read novels now,’ was Madame Suhantchikov’s dry and sharp reply.
‘Why?’
‘Because I have not the time now; I have no thoughts now but for one thing, sewing machines.’
‘What machines?’ inquired Litvinov.
‘Sewing, sewing; all women ought to provide themselves with sewing-machines, and form societies; in that way they will all be enabled to earn their living, and will become independent at once. In no other way can they ever be emancipated. That is an important, most important social question. I had such an argument about it with Boleslav Stadnitsky. Boleslav Stadnitsky is a marvellous nature, but he looks at these things in an awfully frivolous spirit. He does nothing but laugh. Idiot!’
‘All will in their due time be called to account, from all it will be exacted,’ pronounced Gubaryov deliberately, in a tone half-professorial, half-prophetic.
‘Yes, yes,’ repeated Bambaev, ‘it will be exacted, precisely so, it will be exacted. But, Stepan Nikolaitch,’ he added, dropping his voice, ‘how goes the great work?’
‘I am collecting materials,’ replied Gubaryov, knitting his brows; and, turning to Litvinov, whose head began to swim from the medley of unfamiliar names, and the frenzy of backbiting, he asked him what subjects he was interested in.