“From Studenko, from the village,” said Akim indifferently, exactly as if they were not discussing him at all.
“Right, right,” Mitrofan confirmed his statement.
“A peasant from the roots up. He lives with his brother, controls the land and the farmyard in common with him, but nevertheless somewhat in the position of a fool; and, of course, his wife has already run away from him. But we learned the reason why she ran away, from the man himself: he made a bargain with Pankoff, for fifteen kopeks, to admit him of a night, instead of himself, into the chamber—and he did it.”
Akim remained silent, tapping the table with his spoon and staring at the lamp. He had already eaten his fill, wiped his mouth, and was now engaged in thinking over something.
“Jabbering is not working, young man,” he said at last. “And what if I did admit him: my wife is withering, isn’t she?” And as he listened to hear what they would say to that, he bared his teeth in a grin, elevated his eyebrows, and his tiny face, which was like a Suzdal holy picture, assumed a joyously sad expression and became covered with large wooden wrinkles. “I’d like to get that fellow with a gun!” he said with a specially strong squeak and twisting of his consonants. “Wouldn’t he go head over heels!”
“Of whom are you speaking?” inquired Kuzma.
“Why, that nightingale—”
Kuzma set his teeth and, after reflection, said: “Well, you are a putrid peasant. A wild beast.”
“Well, and who cares for what you think?” retorted Akim. And, giving vent to a hiccup, he rose to his feet. “Well, what’s the use of burning the lamp for nothing?”