"Freedom, madam, is not a bad thing, of course, but it has its dangers. And when you think you are the nearest relative to Porfiry Vladimirych, you could forego a bit of that freedom, I imagine." "No, father, one's own bread tastes better. It's easier to live when you know you are under no obligations to anyone." The priest looked at her with his extinguished eyes, as if he meant to ask, "Come now, do you really know what 'one's own bread is?'" but he had not the courage to hurt her, so he only drew his cassock closer about him. "Do you receive much salary as an actress?" inquired the priest's wife. The priest became thoroughly frightened, and even began to wink at his wife. He expected Anninka to be offended, but Anninka was not offended and answered without a waver, "At present I get a hundred and fifty rubles a month, and my sister earns one hundred. But then we have benefit performances. All told, the two of us net about six thousand a year." "Why does sister get less? Is she of inferior merit, or what?" continued the priest's wife. "No, hers is a different _genre._ I have a voice and I sing. The audience likes it more. Sister's voice is a little weaker. So she plays in vaudeville mostly." "So even in acting some are priests, some deacons and others just sextons?" "Yes, but we share our income equally. That was our understanding from the very beginning--to share all money equally." "Like good sisters? Well, there is nothing better than that. How much will that be, father? If you divide six thousand by months, how much will that make?" "Five hundred rubles a month, and divided by two it makes two hundred and fifty rubles a month each." "My, what a heap of money! We could not spend that much in a year. Another thing I meant to ask you, is it true that actresses are treated as if they were not real women?" The priest became so alarmed that his cassock flew open; but seeing that Anninka took the question quite indifferently, he said to himself, "Eh--eh--she is really a hard nut to crack," and felt reassured. "What do you mean 'not real women?'" she asked. "Well, they kiss and embrace. I heard they must do it whether they want to or not." "No, they don't kiss--they only pretend to. And as to whether they want to or not, that is out of the question entirely, because everything is done according to the play. They must act whatever is written in the play." "Yes, but even if it's in the play--you know--sometimes a man with a slabbery snout sidles up to you. He is loathsome to look at, but you've got to hold your lips ready to let him kiss you." A blush suffused Anninka's face. There suddenly flashed up in her memory the slabbery face of the brave Captain Papkov, who had actually "sidled up to her" and, alas! not even in accordance with the play. "You have a wrong notion of what takes place on the stage," she said drily.