The room was packed as tightly as a bird's nest with beautiful, soft furniture. The windows were covered with thick green curtains; the snowy white tiles of the stove gleamed in the half-light; beside the stove shone the glossy surface of a black piano; and from the walls, in dull-gold frames, looked dark writings in large Russian characters. Under each writing hung a large dark seal by a cord. Everything about her looked at that woman as humbly and timidly as I did.
I explained to her as well as I could that my life was hard and uninteresting and that reading helped me to forget it.
"Yes; so that's what it is," she said, standing up. "It is not a bad idea, and, in fact, it is quite right. Well, what shall we do? I will get some books for you, but just now I have none. But wait! You can have this one."
She took a tattered book with a yellow cover from the couch.
"When you have read this I will give you the second volume; there are four."
I went away with the "Secrets of Peterburg," by Prince Meshtcheski, and began to read the book with great attention. But before I had read many pages I saw that the Peterburgian "secrets" were considerably less interesting than those of Madrid, London, or Paris. The only part which took my fancy was the fable of Svoboda (Liberty) and Palka (stick).
"I am your superior," said Svoboda, "because I am cleverer."
But Palka answered her:
"No, it is I who am your superior, because I am stronger than you."
They disputed and disputed and fought about it. Palka beat Svoboda, and, if I remember rightly, Svoboda died in the hospital as the result of her injuries.