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"Your Mihailo Timofevitch is a man who doesn't understand business," said Kuzmitchov in an undertone; "he undertakes what isn't his work, but you understand and can judge. You had better hand over your wool to me, as I have said already, and I would give you half a rouble above my own price yes, I would, simply out of regard for you. . . ." "No, Ivan Ivanitch." Father Christopher sighed.
Kuzmitchov did not seem pleased; his face expressed, as before, a business-like reserve and anxiety. "If I could have known that Tcherepahin would give such a price," he said in a low voice, "I wouldn't have sold Makarov those five tons at home. It is vexatious! But who could have told that the price had gone up here?"
Come, take their things, Solomon. Walk in, honoured guests." A little later Kuzmitchov, Father Christopher, and Yegorushka were sitting in a big gloomy empty room at an old oak table. The table was almost in solitude, for, except a wide sofa covered with torn American leather and three chairs, there was no other furniture in the room.
After his meal Kuzmitchov took a sack containing something out of the chaise and said to Yegorushka: "I am going to sleep, and you mind that no one takes the sack from under my head." Father Christopher took off his cassock, his girdle, and his full coat, and Yegorushka, looking at him, was dumb with astonishment.
"Yes, Countess Dranitsky," repeated Kuzmitchov, also in a whisper. The impression made by the arrival of the countess was probably very great, for even Deniska spoke in a whisper, and only ventured to lash his bays and shout when the chaise had driven a quarter of a mile away and nothing could be seen of the inn but a dim light.
Yegor Ni-ko-la-aitch!" chanted Father Christopher. "Mr. Lomonosov!" "Ah, our gentleman that is to be," said Kuzmitchov, "pleased to see you!" Yegorushka took off his great-coat, kissed his uncle's hand and Father Christopher's, and sat down to the table. "Well, how did you like the journey, puer bone?"
The town ended with the brickyards and the open country began. Yegorushka looked at the town for the last time, pressed his face against Deniska's elbow, and wept bitterly. "Come, not done howling yet, cry-baby!" cried Kuzmitchov. "You are blubbering again, little milksop! If you don't want to go, stay behind; no one is taking you by force!
"He is the son of my sister, Olga Ivanovna," answered Kuzmitchov. "And where is he going?" "To school. We are taking him to a high school." In his politeness, Moisey Moisevitch put on a look of wonder and wagged his head expressively. "Ah, that is a fine thing," he said, shaking his finger at the samovar. "That's a fine thing.
It preened its wings, and without its stomach flew off to the horses. A loud sigh was heard from under the chaise. It was Kuzmitchov waking up. He quickly raised his head, looked uneasily into the distance, and from that look, which passed by Yegorushka and Deniska without sympathy or interest, it could be seen that his thought on awaking was of the wool and of Varlamov.
After washing and dressing, he proceeded without haste to take out of his pocket a little greasy psalter; and standing with his face towards the east, began in a whisper repeating the psalms of the day and crossing himself. "Father Christopher," said Kuzmitchov reproachfully, "it's time to start; the horses are ready, and here are you, . . . upon my word."
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