When Míshka went away, Iván Petróvich at once went up to Iván Fedótov. Iván Fedótov was disconcerted, like a guilty person, at the approach of the gentleman. Timidity and hasty motions formed a queer contradiction to his austere face and curly steel-gray hair and beard.
"Do you wish a dime taper?" he said, raising the desk, and now and then casting his large, beautiful eyes upon the master.
"No, I do not want a taper, Iván. I ask you to forgive me for Christ's sake, if I have in any way offended you. Forgive me, for Christ's sake," Iván Petróvich repeated, with a low bow.
Iván Fedótov completely lost his composure and began to move restlessly, but when he comprehended it all, he smiled a gentle smile:
"God forgives," he said. "It seems to me, I have received no offence from you. God will forgive you,—I have not been offended by you," he hastened to repeat.
"Still—"
"God will forgive you, Iván Petróvich. So you want two dime tapers?"
"Yes, two."
"He is an angel, truly, an angel. He begs even a base peasant to forgive him. O Lord, true angels," muttered the deacon's widow, in an old black capote and black kerchief. "Truly, we ought to understand that."