Here Pufka gave forth a deafening howl. She did not understand a word of what Markelov had said, but she felt that the “black one” was scolding, and how dared he! Vassilievna also muttered something, while Fomishka folded his hands across his breast and turned to his wife. “Fimishka, my darling,” he began, almost in tears; “do you hear what the gentleman is saying? We are both wicked sinners, Pharisees.... We are living on the fat of the land, oh! oh! oh! We ought to be turned out into the street ... with a broom in our hands to work for our living! Oh! oh!”
At these mournful words Pufka howled louder than ever, while Fimishka screwed up her eyes, opened her lips, drew in a deep breath, ready to retaliate, to speak.
God knows how it would have ended had not Paklin intervened.
“What is the matter?” he began, gesticulating with his hands and laughing loudly. “I wonder you are not ashamed of yourselves! Mr. Markelov only meant it as a joke. He has such a solemn face that it sounded a little severe and you took him seriously! Calm yourself! Efimia Pavlovna, darling, we are just going, won’t you tell us our fortunes at cards? You are such a good hand at it. Snandulia, do get the cards, please!”
Fimishka glanced at her husband, who seemed completely reassured, so she too quieted down.
“I have quite forgotten how to tell fortunes, my dear. It is such a long time since I held the cards in my hand.”
But quite of her own accord she took an extraordinary, ancient pack of cards out of Snandalia’s hand.
“Whose fortune shall I tell?”
“Why everybody’s, of course!” Paklin exclaimed. “What a dear old thing she is.... You can do what you like with her,” he thought. “Tell us all our fortunes, granny dear,” he said aloud. “Tell us our fates, our characters, our futures, everything!”
She began shuffling the cards, but threw them down suddenly.