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He posed ceremoniously, and bowed. "I have the honour to present myself, Mark Volokov, under police surveillance, involuntary citizen of this town." He puffed away at his cigar, and again rolled himself up in a ball. "What do you do with yourself here?" asked Raisky. "I think, as you do." "You love art, are perhaps an artist?" "And are you an artist?"
Farewell, Ivan Ivanovich, my head aches, and I am going back to the house to lie down." Tushin looked at Vera, asking himself how any man could be such a blind fool as Volokov. Or is he merely a beast, he thought to himself in impotent rage. He pulled himself together, however, and asked her if she had any instructions for him.
Hideously disturbed by his audacity of thought, she had even gone so far as to tell Tatiana Markovna of this accidental acquaintance, with the result that the old lady told the servants to keep a watch on the garden, but Volokov came from the direction of the precipice, from which the watchmen were effectually kept away by their superstitious fears.
"Mark," answered Raisky, to the excitement of all present. "What Mark?" asked Niel Andreevich, frowning. "Mark Volokov, who is in exile here." "Ah! that thief. Do you know him?" "We are friends." "Friends!" hissed the old man. "Tatiana Markovna, what do I hear?" "Don't believe him, Niel Andreevich. He does not know what he is talking about. What sort of a friend of yours is he?"
Not the exile," he suggested as she gave no answer, "who lives here under police supervision, the same man about whom you wrote to me? But you are not listening." "Yes, I am. Who gave me the books? Sometimes one person, sometimes another here in the town." "Volokov borrowed these books." "Perhaps so, I had them from professors."
Raisky watched him in amazement, and offered his hand. "What favour is this?" said Mark bitterly, and without taking the proffered hand. "I thank you for having stood by my old friend." Mark seized Raisky's hand and shook it. "I have been looking for some means of serving you for a long time." "Why, Volokov, are you for ever executing quick changes like a clown in a circus?"
He passed through the ante-room into the dining-room and stood uncertain before the study door, hesitating whether he should knock or go straight in. Suddenly the door opened, and there stood before him, dressed in a woman's dressing-gown and slippers, Mark Volokov, unbrushed, sleepy, pale, thin and sinister.
In the shed were two horses, here was a pig surrounded by a litter of young, and a hen wandered around with her chickens. A little further off stood some cars and a big telega. "Does Mark Volokov live here?" asked Raisky. The woman pointed to the telega in silence. "That's his room," she said, pointing to one of the windows. "He sleeps in the telega." "At this time of day?"
"Do you then represent the 'new-born strength of the world," she said, looking at him with observant, curious eyes, but without irony, "or is your name a secret?" "Would it frighten you if I named it?" "What could it mean to me if you did disclose it? What is it?" "Mark Volokov. In this silly place my name is heard with nearly as much terror as if it were Pugachev or Stenka Razin."
The question sent a shudder through her, but she answered quickly: "Mark Volokov." His face twitched ominously. Then he pressed his whip over his knee so that it split in pieces, which he hurled away from him. "So it will end with him too," he shouted. As he stood trembling before her, stooping forward, with wild eyes, he was like an animal ready to spring on the enemy.
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