Ivan bowed with great dignity and courtesy, but he too kept his hands at his sides, while Kalganov was so confused that he did not bow at all.The elder let fall the hand raised to bless them, and bowing to them again, asked them all to sit down.The blood rushed to Alyosha's cheeks.He was ashamed.His forebodings were coming true.
Father Zossima sat down on a very old-fashioned mahogany sofa, covered with leather, and made his visitors sit down in a row along the opposite wall on four mahogany chairs, covered with shabby black leather.The monks sat, one at the door and the other at the window.
The divinity student, the novice, and Alyosha remained standing.The cell was not very large and had a faded look.It contained nothing but the most necessary furniture, of coarse and poor quality.There were two pots of flowers in the window, and a number of holy pictures in the corner.Before one huge ancient ikon of the virgin a lamp was burning.Near it were two other holy pictures in shining settings, and, next them, carved cherubim, china eggs, a Catholic cross of ivory, with a Mater Dolorosa embracing it, and several foreign engravings from the great Italian artists of past centuries.Next to these costly and artistic engravings were several of the roughest Russian prints of saints and martyrs, such as are sold for a few farthings at all the fairs.On the other walls were portraits of Russian bishops, past and present.
Miusov took a cursory glance at all these "conventional"surroundings and bent an intent look upon the elder.He had a high opinion of his own insight a weakness excusable in him as he was fifty, an age at which a clever man of the world of established position can hardly help taking himself rather seriously.At the first moment he did not like Zossima.There was, indeed, something in the elder's face which many people besides Miusov might not have liked.He was a short, bent, little man, with very weak legs, and though he was only sixty-five, he looked at least ten years older.His face was very thin and covered with a network of fine wrinkles, particularly numerous about his eyes, which were small, light-coloured, quick, and shining like two bright points.He had a sprinkling of grey hair about his temples.His pointed beard was small and scanty, and his lips, which smiled frequently, were as thin as two threads.His nose was not long, but sharp, like a bird's beak.
"To all appearances a malicious soul, full of petty pride,"thought Miusov.He felt altogether dissatisfied with his position.
A cheap little clock on the wall struck twelve hurriedly, and served to begin the conversation.
"Precisely to our time," cried Fyodor Pavlovitch, "but no sign of my son, Dmitri.I apologise for him, sacred elder!" (Alyosha shuddered all over at "sacred elder".) "I am always punctual myself, minute for minute, remembering that punctuality is the courtesy of kings....
"But you are not a king, anyway," Miusov muttered, losing his self-restraint at once.
"Yes; that's true.I'm not a king, and, would you believe it, Pyotr Alexandrovitch, I was aware of that myself.But, there! I always say the wrong thing.Your reverence," he cried, with sudden pathos, "you behold before you a buffoon in earnest! I introduce myself as such.It's an old habit, alas! And if I sometimes talk nonsense out of place it's with an object, with the object of amusing people and making myself agreeable.One must be agreeable, mustn't one? I was seven years ago in a little town where I had business, and I made friends with some merchants there.We went to the captain of police because we had to see him about something, and to ask him to dine with us.He was a tall, fat, fair, sulky man, the most dangerous type in such cases.It's their liver.I went straight up to him, and with the ease of a man of the world, you know, 'Mr.Ispravnik,' said I, 'be our Napravnik.' 'What do you mean by Napravnik?' said he.I saw, at the first half-second, that it had missed fire.He stood there so glum.'I wanted to make a joke,' said I, 'for the general diversion, as Mr.Napravnik is our well-known Russian orchestra conductor and what we need for the harmony of our undertaking is someone of that sort.' And I explained my comparison very reasonably, didn't I?
'Excuse me,' said he, 'I am an Ispravnik, and I do not allow puns to be made on my calling.' He turned and walked away.I followed him, shouting, 'Yes, yes, you are an Ispravnik, not a Napravnik.' 'No,'
he said, 'since you called me a Napravnik I am one.' And would you believe it, it ruined our business! And I'm always like that, always like that.Always injuring myself with my politeness.Once, many years ago, I said to an influential person: 'Your wife is a ticklish lady,' in an honourable sense, of the moral qualities, so to speak.
But he asked me, 'Why, have you tickled her?' I thought I'd be polite, so I couldn't help saying, 'Yes,' and he gave me a fine tickling on the spot.Only that happened long ago, so I'm not ashamed to tell the story.I'm always injuring myself like that.""You're doing it now," muttered Miusov, with disgust.
Father Zossima scrutinised them both in silence.
