"I? Yes, I am . . . numbered among the transgressors, my charmer."

"But what for?"

"For nothing, but just . . . it's chiefly a question of politics,"
yawned Pyotr Dmitritch--"the antagonisms of Left and Right. I,
an obscurantist and reactionary, ventured in an official paper to
make use of an expression offensive in the eyes of such immaculate
Gladstones as Vladimir Pavlovitch Vladimirov and our local justice
of the peace--Kuzma Grigoritch Vostryakov."

Pytor Dmitritch yawned again and went on:

"And it is the way with us that you may express disapproval of the
sun or the moon, or anything you like, but God preserve you from
touching the Liberals! Heaven forbid! A Liberal is like the poisonous
dry fungus which covers you with a cloud of dust if you accidentally
touch it with your finger."

"What happened to you?"

"Nothing particular. The whole flare-up started from the merest
trifle. A teacher, a detestable person of clerical associations,
hands to Vostryakov a petition against a tavern-keeper, charging
him with insulting language and behaviour in a public place.
Everything showed that both the teacher and the tavern-keeper were
drunk as cobblers, and that they behaved equally badly. If there
had been insulting behaviour, the insult had anyway been mutual.
Vostryakov ought to have fined them both for a breach of the peace