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Dubetchnya has passed again into the possession of Madame Tcheprakov, who has bought it after forcing the engineer to knock the price down twenty per cent. Moisey goes about now in a bowler hat; he often drives into the town in a racing droshky on business of some sort, and stops near the bank.
This was the innkeeper, Moisey Moisevitch, a man no longer young, with a very pale face and a handsome beard as black as charcoal. He was wearing a threadbare black coat, which hung flapping on his narrow shoulders as though on a hatstand, and fluttered its skirts like wings every time Moisey Moisevitch flung up his hands in delight or horror.
He opened his eyes. . . . His uncle was standing by the sofa with his sack in his hands ready for departure; Father Christopher, holding his broad-brimmed top-hat, was bowing to someone and smiling not his usual soft kindly smile, but a respectful forced smile which did not suit his face at all while Moisey Moisevitch looked as though his body had been broken into three parts, and he were balancing and doing his utmost not to drop to pieces.
It seemed to me that at that moment it did not matter to her whether it was I, or Moisey, or Tcheprakov; everything for her was merged in that savage drunken "help" I and our marriage, and our work together, and the mud and slush of autumn, and when she sighed or moved into a more comfortable position I read in her face: "Oh, that morning would come quickly!" In the morning she went away.
"Come along, little gentleman," he said in an undertone, "come and see the little bear I can show you! Such a queer, cross little bear. Oo-oo!" The sleepy boy got up and listlessly dragged himself after Moisey Moisevitch to see the bear.
"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.
One was thrusting the other out, while the other was resisting, and both were breathing heavily. "Leave go," said one, and I recognized Ivan Tcheprakov; it was he who was shrieking in a shrill, womanish voice: "Let go, you damned brute, or I'll bite your hand off." The other I recognized as Moisey. I separated them, and as I did so I could not resist hitting Moisey two blows in the face.
"Well, we may just as well have a cup of tea," said Father Christopher, with a sympathetic smile; "that won't keep us long." "Very well," Kuzmitchov assented. Moisey Moisevitch, in a fluster uttered an exclamation of joy, and shrugging as though he had just stepped out of cold weather into warm, ran to the door and cried in the same frantic voice in which he had called Solomon: "Rosa! Rosa!
Moisey Moisevitch, who was rummaging in the chaise and assisting the travellers to alight, suddenly turned back and shouted in a voice as frantic and choking as though he were drowning and calling for help: "Solomon! Solomon!" "Solomon! Solomon!" a woman's voice repeated indoors.
"And I said to him, 'God bless your compressed air!" he brought out through his laughter, waving both hands. "God bless your compressed air!" Moisey Moisevitch got up, too, and with his hands on his stomach, went off into shrill laughter like the yap of a lap-dog. "God bless the compressed air!" repeated Father Christopher, laughing.
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