she is pretty? Still she is a simple woman, an unwashed peasant woman, a foolish rustic maid, a match for a peasant like me. It is not for a gentleman like you, sir, to be friends with peasants! But she and I will pray to God for your honour; how we will pray!' •
Here Murin bowed very low and for a long while remained with his back bent, continuaJly wiping his beard with his sleeve.
Yaroslav Il3atch did not know where he was standing.
'Yes, this good man,' he observed in conclusion, 'spoke to me of some undesirable incidents; I did not venture to believe him, Vassily Mihalitch, I heard that you were still ill,' he interrupted hurriedly, looking at Ordynov in extreme embarrassment, with eyes full of tears of emotion.
'Yes, how much do I owe you?' Ordynov asked Murin hurriedly.
'What are you saying, your honour? Give over. Why, we are not Judases. Why, you are insulting us, sir, we should be ashamed, sir. Have I and my good woman offended you?'
'But this is really strange, my good man; why, his honour took the room from you; don't you feel that you are insulting him by refusing?' Yaroslav Ilyitch interposed, thinking it his duty to show Murin the strangeness and indelicacy of his conduct.
'But upon my word, sir! What do you mean, sir? What did we not do to please your honour? Why, we tried our very best, we did our utmost, upon my word! Give over, sir, give over, yo'ir honour. Christ have mercy upon you! Why, are
we infidels or what? You might have lived, you might have eaten our humble fare with us and welcome; you might have lain there—we'd have said nothing against it, and we wouldn't have dropped a word; but the evil one tempted you. I am an afflicted man and my mistress is afflicted—^what is one to do? There was no one to wait on you, or we would have been glad, glad from our hearts. And how the mistress and I will pray for your honour, how we will pray for you!'
Murin bowed down from the waist. Tears came into Yaroslav Ilyitch's delighted eyes. He looked with enthusiasm at Ord5mov.
'What a generous trait, isn't it! What sacred hospitality is to be found in the Russian people.'
Ordynov looked wildly at Yaroslav Ilydtch.
He was almost terrified and scrutinised him from head to foot.
'Yes, indeed, sir, we do honour hospitality; we do honour it indeed, sir,' Murin asserted, covering his beard with his whole sleeve. 'Yes, indeed, the thought just came to me; we'd have welcomed you as a guest, sir, hy God! we would,' he went on, approaching Ordjmov; 'and I had nothing against it; another day I would have said nothing, nothing at all; but sin is a sore snare and my mistress is ill. Ah, if it were not for the mistress 1 Here, if I had been alone, for instance; how glad I would have been of your honour, how I would have waited upon you, wouldn't I have waited upon you! Whom should we respect if not your honour? I'd have healed you of your sickness, I know tiie art. . . . You should have been our guest, upon my word you should, that is a great word with us! . . .'
'Yes, really; is there such an art?' observed Yaroslav Ilyitch . . . and broke off.
Ordynov had done Yaroslav Il5ntch injustice when, just before, he had looked him up and down witii wild amazement.
He was, of course, a very honest and honourable person, but now he understood everything and it must be owned his position was a very difficult one. He wanted to explode, as it is called, with laughter! If he had been alone with Ordynov— two sudi friends—Yaroslav Ilyitch would, of course, have given way to an immoderate outburst of gaiety without attempting to control himself. He would, however, have done this in a gentlemanly way. He would after laughing have pressed Ordynov's hand with feeling, would genuinely and justly have assured him that he felt double respect for him and
that he could make allowances in every case . . . and, of course, would have made no reference to his youth. But as it was, with his habitual delicacy of feeling, he was in a most difficult position and scarcely knew what to do with himself. . . .
'Arts, that is decoctions,' Murin added. A quiver passed over his face at Yaroslav Ilyitch's tactless exclamation. 'What I should say, sir, in my peasant foolishness,' he went on, taking einother step forward, 'you've read too many books, sir; as the Russian saying is among us peasants, 'Wit has overstepped wisdom.'. . .'
'Enough,' said Yaroslav Ilyitch sternly.
'I am going,' sdd Ord3mov. 'I thank you, Yaroslav Ilyitch. I will come, I will certainly come and see you,' he Sciid in answer to the redoubled ci-^olities of Yaroslav Ilyitch, who was unable to detain him further. 'Good-bye, good-bye.'
'Good-bye, your honour, good-bye, sir; do not forget us, visit us, poor sinners.'
Ordynov heard nothing more—he went out like one distraught. He could bear no more, he felt shattered, his mind was numb, he dimly felt that he was overcome by illness, but cold despair reigned in his soul, and he was only conscious of a vague pain crushing, wearing, gnawing at his breast; he longed to die at that minute. His legs were giving way under him and he sat down by the fence, taking no notice of the passing people, nor of the crowd that began to collect around him, nor of the questions, nor the exclamations of the curious. But, suddenly, in the multitude of voices, he heard the voice of Murin above him. Ordynov raised his head. The old man really was standing before him, his pale face was thoughtful and dignified, he was quite a different man from the one who had played the coarse farce at Yaroslav Ilyitch's. Ordynov got up. Murin took his arm and led him out of the crowd. 'You want to get your belongings,' he said, looking sideways at Ordjmov. 'Don't grieve, sir,' cried Murin. 'You are young, why grieve? . . .'
Ordynov made no reply.
'Are you offended, sir? ... To be sure you are very angry now . . . but you have no cause; every man guards his own goods!'
'I don't know you,' said Ordynov; 'I don't want to know your secrets. But she, she! . . .' he brought out, and the tears rushed in streams from his eyes. The wind blew them one
after another from his cheeks . . . Ordynov wiped them with his hand; his gesture, his eyes, the involuntary movement of his blue lips all looked like madness.
'I've told you already,' said Murin, knitting his brows, 'that she is crazy! What crazed her? . . . Why need you know? But to me, even so, she is dearl I've loved her more than my life and I'll give her up to no one. Dp you understand now?'
There was a momentary gleam of fire in Ordynov's eyes.
'But why have I . . . ? Why have I as good as lost my life? Why does my heart ache? Why did I know Katerina?'
'Why?' Murin laughed and pondered. 'Why, I don't know why,' he brought out at last. 'A woman's heart is not as deep as the sea; you can get to know it, but it is cunning, persistent, full of life! What she wants she must have at once 1 You may as well know, sir, she wanted to leave me and go away with you; she was sick of the old man, she had lived through everj^liiing that she could Uve with him. You took her fancy, it seems, from the first, though it made no matter whether you or another ... I don't cross her in an3^thing— if she asks for bird's milk I'll get her bird's milk. I'll make up a bird if there is no such bird; she's set on her will though she doesn't know herself what her heart is mad after. So it has turned out that it is better in the old way! Ah, sir! yoii are very young, your heart is^till hot like a girl forsaken, drying her tears on her sleeve! ILet me tell you, sir, a weak man cannot stand alone. Give him everything, he will come of himself and give it all back; give him half the kingdoms of the world to possess, try it and what do you think? He will hide himself in your slipper at once—^he will make himself so small. Give a weak man his freedom—he will bind it himself and give it back fo^ou. To a. foolish heart freedom is no us ^ 1 One can't get on with ways like that. I just tell you all this, you are very young! What are you to me? You've come and gone—^you or another, it's all the same. I knew from the first it would be the same thing; one can't cross her, one can't say a word to cross her if one wants to keep one's happiness; only, you know, sir'—Murin went on with his reflections—'as the saj^ng is, anything may happen; one snatches a knife in one's anger, or an unarmed man will fall on you like a sheep, with his bare hands, and tear his enemy's throat with his teeth; but let them put the knife in your hands and your enemy bare his chest before you—^no fear, you'll step iack.'
They went into the yard. The Tatar saw Murin from a distance, took off his cap to him and stared slyly at Ordynov.
'Where's your mother? At home?' Murin shouted to him.
'Yes.'
