“We can give thee directions,”—said he;—“only why dost thou call this a visitation of the devil? ’Tis a vision, or a sign; but thou wilt not be able to comprehend it; ’tis not within thy flight. And now lie down and sleep under Christ’s protection, dear little father; I will fumigate with incense; and in the morning we will take counsel together. The morning is wiser than the evening, thou knowest.”
Well, sir, and we did take counsel together in the morning—only I came near choking to death with that same incense. And the old man instructed me after this wise: that when I had reached Byéleff I was to go to the public square, and in the second shop on the right inquire for a certain Prokhóritch; and having found Prokhóritch, I was to hand him a document. And the whole document consisted of a scrap of paper, on which was written the following: “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, Amen. To Sergyéi Prokhóritch Pervúshin. Trust this man. Feodúly Ivánovitch.” And below: “Send some cabbages, for God’s sake.”
I thanked the old man, and without further ado ordered my tarantás to be harnessed, and set off for Byéleff. For I argued in this way: admitting that my nocturnal visitor did not cause me much grief, still, nevertheless, it was not quite decorous for a nobleman and an officer—what do you think about it?
“And did you really go to Byéleff?”—whispered Mr. Finopléntoff.
I did, straight to Byéleff. I went to the square, and inquired in the second shop on the right for Prokhóritch. “Is there such a man?”—I asked.
“There is,”—I was told.
“And where does he live?”
“On the Oká, beyond the vegetable-gardens.”
“In whose house?”[42]
“His own.”