LITMIR.BIZ

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      “Yes; I’ve only just moved in.”

      “H’m!… I only meant to say, h’m!… have you noticed nothing special?”

      “Really..

      “That is… I am sure you will be all right there if you are satisfied with your quarters…. I did not mean that; I am ready to warn you… but, knowing your character… How did that old artisan strike you?”

      “He seems to be quite an invalid.”

      “Yes, he’s a great sufferer…. But have you noticed nothing? Have you talked to him?”

      “Very little; he is so morose and unsociable.”

      “H’m!.. Yaroslav Ilyitch mused. “He’s an unfortunate man,” he said dreamily.

      “Is he?”

      “Yes, unfortunate, and at the same time an incredibly strange and interesting person. However, if he does not worry you… Excuse my dwelling upon such a subject, but I was curious…”

      “And you have really roused my curiosity, too…. I should very much like to know what sort of a man he is. Besides, I am living with him…

      “You know, they say the man was once very rich. He traded, as most likely you have heard. But through various unfortunate circumstances he was reduced to poverty; many of his barges were wrecked in a storm and lost, together with their cargo. His factory, which was, I believe, in the charge of a near and dear relation, was equally unlucky and was burnt down, and the relation himself perished in the flames. It must be admitted it was a terrible loss! Then, so they say, Murin sank into tearful despondency; they began to be afraid he would lose his reason, and, indeed, in a quarrel with another merchant, also an owner of barges plying on the Volga, he suddenly showed himself in such a strange an unexpected light that the whole incident could only be accounted for on the supposition that he was quite mad, which I am prepared to believe. I have heard in detail of some of his queer ways; there suddenly happened at last a very strange, so to say momentous, circumstance which can only be attributed to the malign influence of wrathful destiny.”

      “What was it?” asked Ordynov.

      “They say that in a fit of madness he made an attempt on the life of a young merchant, of whom he had before been very fond. He was so upset when he recovered from the attack that he was on the point of taking his own life; so at least they say. I don’t know what happened after that, but it is known that he was several years doing penance…. But what is the matter with you, Vassily Mihalitch? Am I fatiguing you with my artless tale?”

      “Oh no, for goodness’ sake… You say that he has been doing penance; but he is not alone.”

      “I don’t know. I am told he was alone. Anyway, no one else was mixed up in that affair. However, I have not heard what followed; I only know…”

      “Well?”

      “I only know — that is, I had nothing special in my mind to add… I only want to say, if you find anything strange or out of the ordinary in him, all that is merely the result of the misfortunes that have descended upon him one after the other….”

      “Yes, he is so devout, so sanctimonious.”

      “I don’t think so, Vassily Mihalitch; he has suffered so much; I believe he is quite sincere.”

      “But now, of course, he is not mad; he is all right.”

      “Oh, yes, yes; I can answer for that, I am ready to take my oath on it; he is in full possession of all his faculties. He is only, as you have justly observed, extremely strange and devout. He is a very sensible man, in fact. He speaks smartly, boldly and very subtly. The traces of his stormy life in the past are still visible on his face. He’s a curious man, and very well read.”

      “He seems to be always reading religious books.”

      “Yes, he is a mystic.”

      “What?”

      “A mystic. But I tell you that as a secret. I will tell you, as a secret, too, that a very careful watch was kept on him for a time. The man had a great influence on people who used to go to him.”

      “What sort of influence?”

      “But you’ll never believe it; you see, in those days he did not live in this building; Alexandr Ignatyevitch, a respectable citizen, a man of standing, held in universal esteem, went to see him with a lieutenant out of curiosity. They arrive and are received, and the strange man begins by looking into their faces. He usually looks into people’s faces if he consents to be of use to them; if not, he sends people away, and even very uncivilly, I’m told. He asks them, ‘What do you want, gentlemen?’

      ‘Well,’ answers Alexandr Ignatyevitch, ‘your gift can tell you that, without our saying.’

      ‘Come with me into the next room,’ he says; then he signified which of them it was who needed his services. Alexandr Ignatyevitch did not say what happened to him afterwards, but he came out from him as white as a sheet. The same thing happened to a well-known lady of high rank; she, too, came out from seeing him as white as a sheet, bathed in tears and overcome with his predictions and his sayings.”

      “Strange. But now does he still do the same?”

      “It’s strictly prohibited. There have been marvellous instances. A young comet, the hope and joy of a distinguished family, mocked at him. ‘What are you laughing at?’ said the old man, angered. ‘In three days’ time you will be like this!’ and he crossed his arms over his bosom to signify a corpse.”

      “Well?”

      “I don’t venture to believe it, but they say his prediction came true. He has a gift, Vassily Mihalitch…. You are pleased to smile at my guileless story. I know that you are greatly ahead of me in culture; but I believe in him; he’s not a charlatan. Pushkin himself mentions a similar case in his works.”

      “H’m! I don’t want to contradict you. I think you said he’s not living alone?”

      “I don’t know… I believe his daughter is with him.”

      “Daughter?”

      “Yes, or perhaps his wife; I know there is some woman with him. I have had a passing glimpse of her, but I did not notice.”

      “H’m! Strange…”

      The young man fell to musing, Yaroslav Ilyitch to tender contemplation of him. He was touched both at seeing an old friend and at having satisfactorily told him something very interesting. He sat sucking his pipe with his eyes fixed on Vassily Mihalitch; but suddenly he jumped up in a fluster.

      “A whole hour has passed and I forgot the time! Dear Vassily Mihalitch, once more I thank the lucky chance that brought us together, but it is time for me to be off. Will you allow me to visit you in your learned retreat?”

      “Please do, I shall be delighted. I will come and see you, too, when I have a chance.”

      “That’s almost too pleasant to believe. You gratify me, you gratify me unutterably! You would not believe how you have delighted me!”

      They went out of the restaurant. Sergeyev was already flying to meet them and to report in a hurried sentence that Vilyam Emelyanovitch was pleased to be driving out. A pair of spirited roans in a smart light gig did, in fact, come into sight. The trace horse was particularly fine. Yaroslav Ilyitch pressed his best friend’s hand as though in a vice, touched his hat and set off to meet the flying gig. On the way he turned round once or twice to nod farewells to Ordynov.

      Ordynov felt so tired, so exhausted in every limb, that he could scarcely move his legs. He managed somehow to crawl home. At the gate he was met again by the porter, who had been diligently watching his parting from Yaroslav Ilyitch, and beckoning him from a distance. But the young man passed him by. At the door of his flat he ran full tilt against a little grey-headed figure coming out from Murin’s

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