“ ... not without cause is gloriously
By the nobles’ election honoured....”
“I must tell you,”—broke in Ipátoff,—“that he was elected almost exclusively by white balls, for he is a most worthy man.”
“Agéi Fómitch,”—repeated Bodryakóff,
“ ... not without cause is gloriously
By the nobles’ election honoured:
He drinks and eats regularly....
So why should not he be the regulator of order?”[13]
The little old man burst out laughing.
“Ha, ha, ha! that isn’t bad, is it? Ever since then, if you’ll believe me, each one of us will say, for instance, to Agéi Fómitch: ‘Good morning!’—and will invariably add: ‘so why should not he be the regulator of order?’ And does Agéi Fómitch get angry, think you? Not in the least. No—that’s not our way. Just ask Iván Ílitch here if it is.”
Iván Ílitch merely rolled up his eyes.
“Get angry at a jest—how is that possible? Now, take Iván Ílitch there; his nickname among us is ‘The Folding Soul,’ because he agrees to everything very promptly. What then? Does Iván Ílitch take offence at that? Never!”
Iván Ílitch, slowly blinking his eyes, looked first at the little old man, then at Vladímir Sergyéitch.
The epithet, “The Folding Soul,” really did fit Iván Ílitch admirably. There was not a trace in him of what is called will or character. Any one who wished could lead him whithersoever he would; all that was necessary was to say to him: “Come on, Iván Ílitch!”—and he picked up his cap and went; but if another person turned up, and said to him: “Halt, Iván Ílitch!”—he laid down his cap and remained. He was of a peaceable, tranquil disposition, had lived a bachelor-life, did not play cards, but was fond of sitting beside the players and looking into each of their faces in turn. Without society he could not exist, and solitude he could not endure. At such times he became despondent; however, this happened very rarely with him. He had another peculiarity: rising from his bed betimes in the morning, he would sing in an undertone an old romance: