"Aha, my hearing is bad. The Lord has stopped my ears against the abomination of the Nikonites."
Taking off his cap, he held the icon horizontally, looked at the inscription lengthways, sideways, straight up, examined the knots in the wood, blinked, and murmured:
"The godless Nikonites, observing our love of ancient beauties, and instructed by the devil, have maliciously made forgeries. In these days it is very easy to make holy images,—oh, very easy! At first sight, this might be a real Stroganovski, or an Ustiujcki painting, or even a Suzdulski, but when you look into it, it is a forgery."
If he said "forgery," it meant, "This icon is precious and rare."
By a series of pre-arranged signs, he informed the shopman how much he was to give for the icon or book. I knew that the words "melancholy" and "affliction" meant ten rubles. "Nikon the tiger" meant twenty-five. I felt ashamed to see how they deceived the sellers, but the skilful by-play of the valuer amused me.
"Those Nikonites, black children of Nikon the tiger, will do anything,—led by the Devil as they are! Look! Even this signature looks real, and the bas-relief as if it were painted by the one hand. But look at the face—that was not done by the same brush. An old master like Pimen Ushakov, although he was a heretic, did the whole icon himself. He did the bas-relief, the face, and even the chasing very carefully, and sketched in the inscription, but the impious people of our day cannot do anything like it! In old times image painting was a holy calling, but now they make what concerns God merely a matter of art."
At length he laid the icon down carefully on the counter, and putting on his hat, said:
"It is a sin!"
This meant "buy it."
Overwhelmed by his flow of sweet words, astounded by the old man's knowledge, the client would ask in an impressed tone: