“No, he’s asleep. He may, though--”
He went to the door.
“No, he’s asleep,” he repeated, and went back to his place.
“Well, so what are we to say, Nikolai Eremyitch?” the merchant began
again; “we must bring our little business to a conclusion.--Let it be
so, Nikolai Eremyitch, let it be so,” he went on, blinking incessantly;
“two gray notes and a white for your favor, and there” (he nodded in
the direction of the house), “six and a half. Done, eh?”
“Four gray notes,” answered the clerk.
“Come, three, then.”
“Four grays and no white.”
“Three, Nikolai Eremyitch.”
“Three and a half, and not a farthing less.”
“Three, Nikolai Eremyitch.”
“You’re not talking sense, Gavrila Antonitch.”
“My, what a pig-headed fellow!” muttered the merchant. “Then I’d better
arrange it with the lady herself.”
“That’s as you like,” answered the fat man; “far better, I should say.
Why should you worry yourself, after all? Much better, indeed!”
“Well, well! Nikolai Eremyitch. I lost my temper for a minute! That was
nothing but talk.”
“No, really, why--”
“Nonsense, I tell you--I tell you I was joking. Well, take your three
and a half; there’s no doing anything with you.”
“I ought to have got four, but I was in too great a hurry--like an
ass!” muttered the fat man.
“Then up there at the house, six and a half, Nikolai Eremyitch; the
corn will be sold for six and a half?”
“Six and a half, as we said already.”
“Well, your hand on that then, Nikolai Eremyitch.” The merchant clapped
his outstretched fingers into the clerk’s palm. “And good-by, in God’s
name!” The merchant got up. “So then, Nikolai Eremyitch, sir, I’ll go
now to your lady, and bid them send up my name, and so I’ll say to her,
‘Nikolai Eremyitch,’ I’ll say, ‘has made a bargain with me for six and
a half.’”
“That’s what you must say, Gavrila Antonitch.”
“And now, allow me.”
The merchant handed the manager a small roll of notes, bowed, shook
his head, picked up his hat with two fingers, shrugged his shoulders,
and, with a sort of undulating motion, went out, his boots creaking
after the approved fashion. Nikolai Eremyitch went to the wall, and,
as far as I could make out, began sorting the notes handed him by the
merchant. A red head, adorned with thick whiskers, was thrust in at the
door.
“Well?” asked the head; “all as it should be?”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
The fat man made an angry gesture with his hand, and pointed to my room.
“Ah, all right!” responded the head, and vanished.
The fat man went up to the table, sat down, opened a book, took out
a reckoning frame, and began shifting the beads to and fro as he
counted, using not the forefinger, but the third finger of his right
hand, which has a much more showy effect.
The clerk on duty came in.
“What is it?”
“Sidor is here from Goloplek.”
“Oh! ask him in. Wait a bit, wait a bit.--First go and look whether the
strange gentleman’s still asleep, or whether he has waked up.”
The clerk on duty came cautiously into my room. I laid my head on my
game-bag, which served me as a pillow, and closed my eyes.
“He’s asleep,” whispered the clerk on duty, returning to the
counting-house.
The fat man muttered something.
“Well, send Sidor in,” he said at last.