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“Dmitri Fyodorovitch, dear sir, we see you once more!” “Stay, Trifon Borissovitch,” began Mitya, “first and foremost, where is she?” “Agrafena Alexandrovna?” The inn-keeper understood at once, looking sharply into Mitya’s face. “She’s here, too ...” “With whom? With whom?” “Some strangers. One is an official gentleman, a Pole, to judge from his speech.
They were delighted with this new mode of reckoning; three and three made six, three thousand then and three now made six, that was clear. They questioned all the peasants suggested by Trifon Borissovitch, Stepan and Semyon, the driver Andrey, and Kalganov. The peasants and the driver unhesitatingly confirmed Trifon Borissovitch’s evidence.
It is true that he was out of humor and greatly disliked the task that had been laid upon him. “Good-by, Trifon Borissovitch!” Mitya shouted again, and felt himself, that he had not called out this time from good-nature, but involuntarily, from resentment.
Mavriky Mavrikyevitch did as he was told, preserving his incognito, and giving no one but his old acquaintance, Trifon Borissovitch, the slightest hint of his secret business. He had spoken to him just before Mitya met the landlord in the balcony, looking for him in the dark, and noticed at once a change in Trifon Borissovitch’s face and voice.
“What is it, Trifon Borissovitch? are you looking for me?” “No, sir.” The landlord seemed disconcerted. “Why should I be looking for you? Where have you been?” “Why do you look so glum? You’re not angry, are you? Wait a bit, you shall soon get to bed.... What’s the time?” “It’ll be three o’clock. Past three, it must be.” “We’ll leave off soon. We’ll leave off.”
“Good-by to you, too, Trifon Borissovitch!” But Trifon Borissovitch did not even turn round. He was, perhaps, too busy. He, too, was shouting and fussing about something. It appeared that everything was not yet ready in the second cart, in which two constables were to accompany Mavriky Mavrikyevitch.
“When I stood him drinks in the tavern, the man had quite a different face,” thought Mitya, as he got in. At the gates there was a crowd of people, peasants, women and drivers. Trifon Borissovitch came down the steps too. All stared at Mitya. “Forgive me at parting, good people!” Mitya shouted suddenly from the cart. “Forgive us too!” he heard two or three voices.
An absurd chaotic confusion followed, but Mitya was in his natural element, and the more foolish it became, the more his spirits rose. If the peasants had asked him for money at that moment, he would have pulled out his notes and given them away right and left. This was probably why the landlord, Trifon Borissovitch, kept hovering about Mitya to protect him.
They’ve no shame!” exclaimed Trifon Borissovitch. “Akim gave you twenty-five copecks the day before yesterday. You’ve drunk it all and now you cry out. I’m simply surprised at your good-nature, with our low peasants, Mavriky Mavrikyevitch, that’s all I can say.” “But what do we want a second cart for?” Mitya put in. “Let’s start with the one, Mavriky Mavrikyevitch.
Trifon Borissovitch was a thick-set, healthy peasant, of middle height, with a rather fat face. His expression was severe and uncompromising, especially with the peasants of Mokroe, but he had the power of assuming the most obsequious countenance, when he had an inkling that it was to his interest. He dressed in Russian style, with a shirt buttoning down on one side, and a full-skirted coat.
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