“That’s about it.”
“But if this reputation precedes me, why should you seek my acquaintance. I have torn your books, as no doubt our friend there has informed you.”
“There he is to the point,” cried Leonti. “I am glad he began the subject himself. He is a good sort at the bottom. If one is ill, he waits on one like a nurse, runs to the chemist, and takes any amount of trouble. But the rascal wanders round and gives no one any peace.”
“Don’t chatter so,” interrupted Mark.
“For that matter,” said Raisky, “everybody does not abuse you. Tiet Nikonich Vatutin, for instance, goes out of his way to speak well of you.”
“Is it possible! The sugar marquis! I left him some souvenirs of my presence. More than once I have waked him in the night by opening his bedroom window. He is always fussing about his health, but in all the forty years since he came here no one remembers him to have been ill. I shall never return the money he lent me. What more provocation would he have? And yet he praises me.”
“So that is your department of art,” said Raisky gaily.
“What kind of an artist are you? It is your turn to tell me.”
“I love and adore beauty. I love art, draw, and make music, and just now I am trying to write a great work, a novel.”
“Yes, yes, I see. You are an artist of the kind we all are.”