"Uh, that won't be n-n-n-necessary. We need Kant in our hearts and a peaceful sky above our heads. There's a law like that," Benedikt remembered.

"True enough. And it's us against the tyrants. Agreed?"

"Of course."

"We'll ravage the oppressor's nest, okey dokey?"

"Oh, Papa, he's got books piled high as the snow!"

"Aaah, my dear, even higher. And he tears pictures out of them."

"Quiet, I don't want to know," said Benedikt, gritting his teeth.

"I can't be quiet! Art is in peril!" Father-in-law exclaimed sternly. "There is no worse enemy than indifference! All evil in fact comes from the silent acquiescence of the indifferent. You read Mumu, didn't you? Did you understand the moral? How he kept silent all the time, and the dog died."

"Papa, but how-"

"Know-how, that's how. I've thought the whole thing through. We'll make a revolution. I've just been waiting for you. We'll go in at night, he doesn't sleep at night, but the guards will be tired. Okey-dokey?"

"At night, how can we do it at night? It's dark!"

"And what am I here for? Aren't I a torch-bearer?"

Father-in-law's eyes gave off a ray of light, and he laughed contentedly.

Clear and simple. The soul was icy clean. No neuroses now.

YAT

The red terem had a moldy smell-a familiar, exciting smell… Unmistakable. Old paper, the leather of ancient bindings, traces of gold dust, sweet glue. Benedikt felt a bit weak in the knees, like he was on his way to a woman for the first time. Women!… What did he need Marfushkas or Olenkas for now, when all the women of the ages, the Isoldes, the Rosamunds, the Juliets, with their combs and silks, their daggers and caprices, would be his any minute, now and forever more… When he was just about to become the owner of the untold, the unimaginable… the Shah of Shahs, the Emir, the Sultan, the Sun King, Head of the Housing Committee, Chairman of the Earth, Head Clerk, Archimandrite, Pope of Rome, Boyars' Council Scribe, the Collegiate Assessor, King Solomon… He, Benedikt, he would be all of these…

Father-in-law illuminated the path with his eyes. Two strong, moon-white rays searched the hallways. Dust swam in the beams of light, disappearing for a moment when Father-in-law blinked. Benedikt's head spun from the frequent flares, the fragrance of nearby book bindings, and the sweetish stench coming from Father-in-law's mouth-Father-in-law kept jerking his head, as though his collar was strangling him. Shadows danced along the walls like gigantic letters: [*]-Glagol of the hook, [*]- Liudi of Benedikt's peaked hood, [*]-Zhivete of the cautious fingers splayed to feel their way along the walls, to search for hidden doors. Father-in-law ordered him to step softly, not to shuffle his feet.

"Listen to the revolution, dammit!"

The revolutionaries crept through the corridors, turned corners, stopped, looked around, listened. Somewhere back there near the entrance lay the pitiful guards, no longer breathing: what can a poleax or a halberd do against a double-edged hook, swift as a bird?

They passed through two floors, climbed the stairs, ran on tiptoe across the hanging galleries where the moon shone bright and terrible through the window bladders. Their black felt boots silently crossed the moonlit floorboards; the tall, ornamented inner doors opened to show the drunken private quarter guards snoring-legs akimbo, caps on their chests. Father-in-law swore quietly: No order in the government at all. Fyodor Kuzmich, Glorybe, had ruined everything. Quickly, with a swift poke, they dispatched the guards.

After the entrance there were more corridors and the sweet smell grew nearer. Glancing upward, Benedikt clasped his hands: books! The shelves were packed with books! Lord Almighty! Saints alive! His knees gave way, he trembled and whined softly: you couldn't read them all in a whole lifetime! A forest of pages, an endless, indiscriminate blizzard, uncounted! Ah…! Ah!!! Aaaaa! Maybe… just maybe… somewhere here… maybe the secret book is here somewhere! The book that tells you how to live, where to go, where to guide the heart! Maybe Fyodor Kuzmich, Glorybe, has found it, and is already reading it: he jumps up on the bed quick as a wink, and just reads and reads! He went and found it, the monster, and he's reading it!! The tyrant! Shit!

"Pay attention!" Father-in-law breathed into his face.

The hallways branched off, turned, forked, and disappeared toward the unknown depths of the terem. Father-in-law looked every which way: all that could be seen was books.

"There has to be a simple way in," muttered Father-in-law. "Somewhere there must be an entrance. There has to be… We took a wrong turn somewhere."

"The Northern Herald!!! Issue number eight!!!" Benedikt cried. He rushed at it, pushing Kudeyar Kudeyarich, who tripped and fell against the wall. As he fell, he reached his hand out to break his fall: the wall yielded and turned into a shelf, the shelf collapsed and broke into pieces. Suddenly they were in an enormous hall whose walls were entirely covered with bookcases and shelves; there were countless tables heaped high with books, and at the head table, in a semicircle of a thousand candles, was a high stool, and on that stool sat Fyodor Kuzmich himself, Glorybe, with a writing stick in his mouth: he turned his face to look at them and his mouth opened wide: he was surprised.

"Why are you here unannounced?" he said, frowning.

"Get down, overthrow yourself, you accursed tyrant-bloodsucker," cried Father-in-law with real flourish. "We've come to oust you!"

"Who's come? Why did they let you in?" said Fyodor Kuzmich, Glorybe, in a worried voice.

"Who's come? Who's come? He whose time has come, that's who."

"Tyrants of the world, tremble; but you take courage and hark!" cried Benedikt from behind Father-in-law's shoulder.

"Why tremble?" asked Fyodor Kuzmich, as he realized what was happening. He screwed up his face and began to cry. "What are you going to do to me?"

"Your unjust rule has ended! You tormented the people- and that's enough of that! Now we'll give you a taste of the hook!"

"I don't want the hook, I don't. It huuurts!"

"Next thing you know he'll be telling us his sad story," cried Father-in-law. "Beat him!" he cried, striking a blow in his direction. But Fyodor Kuzmich, Glorybe, rolled off the stool like a pea and ran, so Father-in-law hit a book instead, and split it in two.

"Why, why are you ousting meeee?"

"You're doing a bad job of running the state!" cried Father-in-law in a terrible voice. Hook in hand, he rushed at the Greatest Murza, Long May He Live, but Fyodor Kuzmich, Glorybe, dived under the stool again and scrambled under the table. He ran to the other side of the room.

"I do the best I can!" sobbed Fyodor Kuzmich.

"You destroyed the whole goddamned country! You tear pages out of books! Get him, Benedikt!"

"You stole poems from the pushkin," cried Benedikt, working himself up, "and he's our be all and end all! And you stole from him!"

"I invented the wheel!"

"It was the pushkin who invented the wheel!"

"And the yoke!"

"Pushkin did it!"

"The torch!"

"Jeez! He's still being stubborn."

Benedikt ran after Fyodor Kuzmich from one side of the table, Father-in-law tried to head him off on the other side, but the Greatest Murza, Long May He Live, once again bolted under the books.

"Leave me alone, I'm a good boy!"

"You wily louse!" cried Father-in-law. With one hand leaning on the table, he jumped over it in a single leap. Fyodor Kuzmich, Glorybe, squealed, scampered under the bookcase, and took refuge somewhere out of sight.

"Catch him!" croaked Father-in-law, thrusting his hook under the shelves. "He'll get away! Get away! He has tunnels dug everywhere!"