“Ivan Ivanitch and Father Christopher have come,” said Moisey Moisevitch in a tone as though he were afraid his brother would not believe him.  “Dear, dear!  What a surprise!  Such honoured guests to have come us so suddenly!  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.  And, indeed, not everybody would have given the chairs that name.  They were a pitiful semblance of furniture, covered with American leather that had seen its best days, and with backs bent backwards at an unnaturally acute angle, so that they looked like children’s sledges.  It was hard to imagine what had been the unknown carpenter’s object in bending the chairbacks so mercilessly, and one was tempted to imagine that it was not the carpenter’s fault, but that some athletic visitor had bent the chairs like this as a feat, then had tried to bend them back again and had made them worse.  The room looked gloomy, the walls were grey, the ceilings and the cornices were grimy; on the floor were chinks and yawning holes that were hard to account for (one might have fancied they were made by the heel of the same athlete), and it seemed as though the room would still have been dark if a dozen lamps had hung in it.  There was nothing approaching an ornament on the walls or the windows.  On one wall, however, there hung a list of regulations of some sort under a two-headed eagle in a grey wooden frame, and on another wall in the same sort of frame an engraving with the inscription, “The Indifference of Man.”  What it was to which men were indifferent it was impossible to make out, as the engraving was very dingy with age and was extensively flyblown.  There was a smell of something decayed and sour in the room.

As he led the visitors into the room, Moisey Moisevitch went on wriggling, gesticulating, shrugging and uttering joyful exclamations; he considered these antics necessary in order to seem polite and agreeable.

“When did our waggons go by?” Kuzmitchov asked.

“One party went by early this morning, and the other, Ivan Ivanitch, put up here for dinner and went on towards evening.”

“Ah! . . .  Has Varlamov been by or not?”

“No, Ivan Ivanitch.  His clerk, Grigory Yegoritch, went by yesterday morning and said that he had to be to-day at the Molokans’ farm.”

“Good! so we will go after the waggons directly and then on to the Molokans’.”

“Mercy on us, Ivan Ivanitch!” Moisey Moisevitch cried in horror, flinging up his hands.  “Where are you going for the night?  You will have a nice little supper and stay the night, and to-morrow morning, please God, you can go on and overtake anyone you like.”

“There is no time for that. . . .  Excuse me, Moisey Moisevitch, another time; but now I must make haste.  We’ll stay a quarter of an hour and then go on; we can stay the night at the Molokans’.”