LITMIR.BIZ

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again.

      At that moment someone called the porter from the other yard, and then a little, bent, grey-headed man in a sheepskin appeared. He walked, stumbling and looking at the ground, groaning and muttering to himself. He looked as though he were in his dotage.

      “The master, the master!” the porter whispered in a fluster, with a hurried nod to Ordynov, and taking off his cap, he ran to meet the old man, whose face looked familiar to Ordynov; he had anyway met him somewhere just lately.

      Reflecting, however, that there was nothing remarkable in that, he walked out of the yard. The porter struck him as an out-and-out rogue and an impudent fellow.

      “The scoundrel was practically bargaining with me!” he thought. “Goodness knows what it means!”

      He had reached the street as he said this.

      By degrees he began to be absorbed in other thoughts. The impression was unpleasant, the day was grey and cold; flakes of snow were flying. The young man felt overcome by a feverish shiver again; he felt, too, as though the earth were shaking under Him All at once an unpleasantly sweet, familiar voice wished him good-morning in a broken tenor.

      “Yaroslav Ilyitch,” said Ordynov.

      Before him stood a short, sturdy, red-cheeked man, apparently about thirty, with oily grey eyes and a little smile, dressed… as Yaroslav Ilyitch always was dressed. He was holding out his hand to him in a very amicable way. Ordynov had made the acquaintance of Yaroslav Ilyitch just a year before in quite a casual way, almost in the street. They had so easily become acquainted, partly by chance and partly through Yaroslav Ilyitch’s extraordinary propensity for picking up everywhere goodnatured, well-bred people, and his preference for friends of good education whose talents and elegance of behaviour made them worthy at least of belonging to good society. Though Yaroslav Ilyitch had an extremely sweet tenor, yet even in conversation with his dearest friends there was something extraordinarily clear, powerful and dominating in the tone of his voice that would put up with no evasions; it was perhaps merely due to habit.

      “How on earth…?” exclaimed Yaroslav Ilyitch, with an expression of the most genuine, ecstatic pleasure.

      “I am living here.”

      “Have you lived here long?” Yaroslav Ilyitch continued on an ascending note. “And I did not know it! Why, we are neighbours! I am in this quarter now. I came back from the Ryazan province a month ago. I’ve caught you, my old and noble friend!” and Yaroslav Ilyitch laughed in a most goodnatured way. “Sergeyev!” he cried impressively, “wait for me at Tarasov’s, and don’t let them touch a sack without me. And stir up the Olsufyev porter; tell him to come to the office at once. I shall be there in an hour….”

      Hurriedly giving someone this order, the refined Yaroslav Ilyitch took Ordynov’s arm and led him to the nearest restaurant.

      “I shall not be satisfied till we have had a couple of words alone after such a long separation. Well, what of your doings?” he pronounced almost reverently, dropping his voice mysteriously. “Working at science, as ever?”

      “Yes, as before,” answered Ordynov, struck by a bright idea.

      “Splendid, Vassily Mihalitch, splendid!” At this point Yaroslav Ilyitch pressed Ordynov’s hand warmly. “You will be a credit to the community. God give you luck in your career…. Goodness! how glad I am I met you! How often I have thought of you, how often I have said: ‘Where is he, our good, noble-hearted, witty Vassily Mihalitch?’”

      They engaged a private room. Yaroslav Ilyitch ordered lunch, asked for vodka, and looked feelingly at Ordynov.

      “I have read a great deal since I saw you,” he began in a timid and somewhat insinuating voice. “I have read all Pushkin…”

      Ordynov looked at him absentmindedly.

      “A marvellous understanding of human passion. But first of all, let me express my gratitude. You have done so much for me by nobly instilling into me a right way of thinking.”

      “Upon my word…”

      “No, let me speak; I always like to pay honour where honour is due, and I am proud that this feeling at least has found expression.”

      “Really, you are unfair to yourself, and I, indeed…”

      “No, I am quite fair,” Yaroslav Ilyitch replied, with extraordinary warmth. “What am I in comparison with you?”

      “Good Heavens!”

      “Yes….”

      Then followed silence.

      “Following your advice, I have dropped many low acquaintances and have, to some extent, softened the coarseness of my manners,” Yaroslav Ilyitch began again in a somewhat timid and insinuating voice. “In the time when I am free from my duties I sit for the most part at home; in the evenings I read some improving book and… I have only one desire, Vassily Mihalitch: to be of some little use to the fatherland….”

      “I have always thought you a very high-minded man, Yaroslav Ilyitch.”

      “You always bring balm to my spirit… you generous young man….”

      Yaroslav Ilyitch pressed Ordynov’s hand warmly.

      “You are drinking nothing?” he said, his enthusiasm subsiding a little.

      “I can’t; I’m ill.”

      “Ill? Yes, are you really? How long — in what way — did you come to be ill? If you like I’ll speak… What doctor is treating you? If you like I’ll speak to our parish doctor. I’ll run round to him myself. He’s a very skilful man!” Yaroslav Ilyitch was already picking up his hat.

      “Thank you very much. I don’t go in for being doctored. I don’t like doctors.”

      “You don’t say so? One can’t go on like that. But he’s a very clever man,” Yaroslav Ilyitch went on imploringly. “The other day — do allow me to tell you this, dear Vassily Mihalitch — the other day a poor carpenter came. ‘Here,’ said he, Š hurt my hand with a tool; cure it for me….’ Semyon Pafnutyitch, seeing that the poor fellow was in danger of gangrene, set to work to cut off the wounded hand; he did this in my presence, but it was done in such a gener… that is, in such a superb way, that I confess if it had not been for compassion for suffering humanity, it would have been a pleasure to look on, simply from curiosity. But where and how did you fall ill?”

      “In moving from my lodging… I’ve only just got up.”

      “But you are still very unwell and you ought not to be out. So you are not living where you were before? But what induced you to move?”

      “My landlady was leaving Petersburg.”

      “Domna Savishna? Really?… A thoroughly estimable, goodhearted woman! Do you know? I had almost a son’s respect for her. That life, so near its end, had something of the serene dignity of our forefathers, and looking at her, one seemed to see the incarnation of our hoary-headed, stately old traditions… I mean of that… something in it so poetical!” Yaroslav Ilyitch concluded, completely overcome with shyness and blushing to his ears.

      “Yes, she was a nice woman.”

      “But allow me to ask you where you are settled now.”

      “Not far from here, in Koshmarov’s Buildings.”

      “I know him. A grand old man! I am, I may say, almost a real friend of his. A fine old veteran!”

      Yaroslav Ilyitch’s lips almost quivered with enthusiasm. He asked for another glass of vodka and a pipe.

      “Have you taken a flat?”

      “No, a furnished room in a flat.”

      “Who is your landlord? Perhaps I know him, too.”

      “Murin, an artisan; a tall old man…”

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