“He really did. But I respect him. There’s something of Mephistopheles about him, or rather of ‘The hero of our time’ ... Arbenin, or what’s his name?... You see, he’s a sensualist. He’s such a sensualist that I should be afraid for my daughter or my wife if she went to confess to him. You know, when he begins telling stories.... The year before last he invited us to tea, tea with liqueur (the ladies send him liqueur), and began telling us about old times till we nearly split our sides.... Especially how he once cured a paralyzed woman. ‘If my legs were not bad I know a dance I could dance you,’ he said. What do you say to that? ‘I’ve plenty of tricks in my time,’ said he. He did Dernidov, the merchant, out of sixty thousand.”
“What, he stole it?”
“He brought him the money as a man he could trust, saying, ‘Take care of it for me, friend, there’ll be a police search at my place to‐morrow.’ And he kept it. ‘You have given it to the Church,’ he declared. I said to him: ‘You’re a scoundrel,’ I said. ‘No,’ said he, ‘I’m not a scoundrel, but I’m broad‐minded.’ But that wasn’t he, that was some one else. I’ve muddled him with some one else ... without noticing it. Come, another glass and that’s enough. Take away the bottle, Ivan. I’ve been telling lies. Why didn’t you stop me, Ivan, and tell me I was lying?”
“I knew you’d stop of yourself.”
“That’s a lie. You did it from spite, from simple spite against me. You despise me. You have come to me and despised me in my own house.”
“Well, I’m going away. You’ve had too much brandy.”
“I’ve begged you for Christ’s sake to go to Tchermashnya for a day or two, and you don’t go.”
“I’ll go to‐morrow if you’re so set upon it.”
“You won’t go. You want to keep an eye on me. That’s what you want, spiteful fellow. That’s why you won’t go.”
The old man persisted. He had reached that state of drunkenness when the drunkard who has till then been inoffensive tries to pick a quarrel and to assert himself.