“Don’t do that, my dear,” hastily interrupted Ivan Matvyèich, who had long been jealous of Andrey Osìpych’s admiration of his wife, and knew that she was glad of a chance to weep before a man of refinement, as tears became her very well. “And you, my friend,” he continued, addressing me, “you had better go to Timofèy Semyònych. And now take away Elyòna Ivànovna.... Be calm, my love,” he added to her. “I am tired with all this noise and feminine quarrelling, and wish to take a little nap. It is warm and soft here, though I have not yet had time to look about me in this unexpected refuge.”
“Look about you! Is there any light there?” cried Elyòna Ivànovna in delight.
“I am surrounded by impenetrable darkness,” answered the poor captive; “but I can feel, and, so to say, look about me with my hands. Good-bye! Be calm, and do not deny yourself recreation. You, Semyòn Semyònich, come back to me this evening, and, as you are absent-minded and may forget, tie a knot in your handkerchief.”
The respectable Timofèy Semyònych received me in a hurried and, as it were, somewhat embarrassed manner. He took me into his little study and carefully shut the door: “So that the children shan’t disturb us,” as he explained with evident anxiety. He then placed me in a seat by the writing-table, sat down in an armchair, gathered up the tails of his old wadded dressing-gown, and put on an official, even severe expression, although he was not in authority over either Ivan Matvyèich or myself, but simply an acquaintance and fellow-official.
“First of all,” he began, “remember that I am not an authority; I am a mere subordinate, like yourself or Ivan Matvyèich. I am an outsider, and do not intend to mix myself up with anything.”
He evidently knew all, much to my astonishment. However, I told him the whole story over again, with all details. I spoke with emotion, for at that moment I was fulfilling the duty of a true friend. He listened without any great surprise, but with evident suspiciousness.
“Just imagine,” he said, when I had done; “I always expected that this very thing would happen to him.”
“But why, Timofèy Semyònych—the case is a most exceptional one?”
“Certainly. But during the whole term of his service Ivan Matvyèich has been leading up to this result. He’s too nimble—yes, and too conceited. Always ‘progress’ and new-fangled ideas—and that’s where progress ends.”
“Well, but this is an altogether extraordinary occurrence; one can’t put it forward as a general rule for all progressists.”