The grey twilight was growing denser. The shadows merged. Volodya felt
depressed. But here was the lamp. The light poured itself on the green
tablecloth, the vague, beloved shadows appeared on the wall.
Volodya suddenly felt glad and animated, and made haste to get the
little grey book. The bull began to low ... the young lady to laugh
uproariously.... What evil, round eyes the bald-headed gentleman was
making!
Then he tried his own. It was the steppe. Here was a wayfarer with his
knapsack. Volodya seemed to hear the endless, monotonous song of the
road....
Volodya felt both joy and sadness.
X
“Volodya, it’s the third time I’ve seen you with the little book. Do
you spend whole evenings admiring your fingers?”
Volodya stood uneasily at the table, like a truant caught, and he
turned the pages of the leaflet with hot fingers.
“Give it to me,” said his mother.
Volodya, confused, put out his hand with the leaflet. His mother took
it, said nothing, and went out; while Volodya sat down over his
copy-books.
He felt ashamed that, by his stubbornness, he had offended his mother,
and he felt vexed that she had taken the booklet from him; he was even
more vexed at himself for letting the matter go so far. He felt his
awkward position, and his vexation with his mother troubled him: he had
scruples in being angry with her, yet he couldn’t help it. And because
he had scruples he felt even more angry.
“Well, let her take it,” he said to himself at last, “I can get along
without it.”
And, in truth, Volodya had the figures in his memory, and used the
little book merely for verification.