"Well, your honor, what is your opinion of the icon?"
"The icon was made by Nikonite hands."
"That cannot be! My grandfather and my grandmother prayed before it!"
"Nikon lived before your grandfather lived."
The old man held the icon close to the face of the seller, and said sternly:
"Look now what a joyous expression it has! Do you call that an icon? It is nothing more than a picture—a blind work of art, a Nikonski joke—there is no soul in it! Would I tell you what is not true? I, an old man, persecuted for the sake of the truth! I shall soon have to go to God. I have nothing to gain by acting unfairly."
He went out from the shop onto the terrace, languid with the feebleness of old age, offended by the doubt cast upon his valuation. The shopman paid a few rubles for the picture, the seller left, bowing low to Petr Vassilich, and they sent me to the tavern to get boiling water for the tea. When I returned, I would find the valuer brisk and cheerful, looking lovingly at the purchase, and thus instructing the shopman:
"Look, this icon has been very carefully done! The painting is very fine, done in the fear of God. Human feelings had no part in it."
"And whose work is it?" asked the shopman, beaming and jumping about for joy.
"It is too soon for you to know that."