Lent began. Viktor Ivanitch, whose existence I had begun to forget,
arrived from Petersburg. He arrived unexpectedly, without even a
telegram to say he was coming. When I went in, as usual in the
evening, he was walking about the drawing-room, telling some story
with his face freshly washed and shaven, looking ten years younger:
his daughter was kneeling on the floor, taking out of his trunks
boxes, bottles, and books, and handing them to Pavel the footman.
I involuntarily drew back a step when I saw the engineer, but he
held out both hands to me and said, smiling, showing his strong
white teeth that looked like a sledge-driver's:

"Here he is, here he is! Very glad to see you, Mr. House-painter!
Masha has told me all about it; she has been singing your praises.
I quite understand and approve," he went on, taking my arm. "To be
a good workman is ever so much more honest and more sensible than
wasting government paper and wearing a cockade on your head. I
myself worked in Belgium with these very hands and then spent two
years as a mechanic. . . ."

He was wearing a short reefer jacket and indoor slippers; he walked
like a man with the gout, rolling slightly from side to side and
rubbing his hands. Humming something he softly purred and hugged
himself with satisfaction at being at home again at last, and able
to have his beloved shower bath.

"There is no disputing," he said to me at supper, "there is no
disputing; you are all nice and charming people, but for some reason,
as soon as you take to manual labour, or go in for saving the
peasants, in the long run it all comes to no more than being a