“I am very glad,”—began the little old man, pleasantly throwing apart his hands, while his companion set to scrutinising the ceiling, with his mouth slightly open:—“I am very glad that I have, at last, the honour of seeing you personally. Although you have your permanent residence in a county which lies at a considerable distance from these localities, still, we regard you also as one of our own primordial landed proprietors, so to speak.”
“That is very flattering to me,”—returned Vladímir Sergyéitch.
“Flattering or not, it is a fact. You must excuse us, Vladímir Sergyéitch; we people here in *** county are a straightforward folk; we live in our simplicity; we say what we think, without circumlocution. It is our custom, I must tell you, not to call upon each other on Name-days[12] otherwise than in our frock-coats. Truly! We have made that the rule. On that account, we are called ‘frock-coaters’ in the adjoining counties, and we are even reproached for our bad style; but we pay no attention to that! Pray, what is the use of living in the country—and then standing on ceremony?”
“Of course, what can be better ... in the country ... than that naturalness of intercourse,”—remarked Vladímir Sergyéitch.
“And yet,”—replied the little old man,—“among us in our county dwell people of the cleverest sort,—one may say people of European culture, although they do not wear dress-suits. Take, for example, our historian Evsiukóff, Stepán Stepánitch: he is interesting himself in Russian history from the most ancient times, and is known in Petersburg—an extremely learned man! There is in our town an ancient Swedish cannon-ball ... ’tis placed yonder, in the centre of the public square ... and ’twas he who discovered it, you know! Certainly! Tzénteler, Antón Kárlitch ... now he has studied natural history; but they say all Germans are successful in that line. When, ten years ago, a stray hyena was killed in our vicinity, it was this Antón Kárlitch who discovered that it really was a hyena, by cause of the peculiar construction of its tail. And then, we have a landed proprietor Kaburdín: he chiefly writes light articles; he wields a very dashing pen; his articles appear in ‘Galatea.’ Bodryakóff, ... not Iván Ílitch; no, Iván Ílitch neglects that; but another Bodryakóff, Sergyéi ... what the deuce was his father’s baptismal name, Iván Ílitch ... what the deuce was it?”
“Sergyéitch,”—prompted Iván Ílitch.
“Yes; Sergyéi Sergyéitch,—he busies himself with writing verses. Well, of course he’s not a Púshkin, but sometimes he gets off things which would pass muster even in the capitals. Do you know his epigram on Agéi Fómitch?”
“What Agéi Fómitch?”
“Akh, pardon me; I keep forgetting that you are not a resident here, after all. He is our chief of police. The epigram is extremely amusing. Thou rememberest it, I believe, Iván Ílitch?”
“Agéi Fómitch,”—said Bodryakóff, indifferently—