happens now that the priest smells of tobacco or vodka I don’t venture to blame him, because the priest, too, of course, is an ordinary man.  But as soon as I am told that in the town or in the village a saint has set up who does not eat for weeks, and makes rules of his own, I know whose work it is.  So that is how I carried on in the past, gentlemen.  Now, like Osip Varlamitch, I am continually exhorting my cousins and reproaching them, but I am a voice crying in the wilderness.  God has not vouchsafed me the gift.”

Matvey’s story evidently made no impression whatever.  Sergey Nikanoritch said nothing, but began clearing the refreshments off the counter, while the policeman began talking of how rich Matvey’s cousin was.

“He must have thirty thousand at least,” he said.

Zhukov the policeman, a sturdy, well-fed, red-haired man with a full face (his cheeks quivered when he walked), usually sat lolling and crossing his legs when not in the presence of his superiors.  As he talked he swayed to and fro and whistled carelessly, while his face had a self-satisfied replete air, as though he had just had dinner.  He was making money, and he always talked of it with the air of a connoisseur.  He undertook jobs as an agent, and when anyone wanted to sell an estate, a horse or a carriage, they applied to him.

“Yes, it will be thirty thousand, I dare say,” Sergey Nikanoritch assented.  “Your grandfather had an immense fortune,” he said, addressing Matvey.  “Immense it was; all left to your father and your uncle.  Your father died as a young man and your uncle got hold of it all, and afterwards, of course, Yakov Ivanitch.  While you were going pilgrimages with your mama and singing tenor in the factory, they didn’t let the grass grow under their feet.”

“Fifteen thousand comes to your share,” said the policeman swaying from side to side.  “The tavern belongs to you in common, so the capital is in common.  Yes.  If I were in your place I should have taken it into court long ago.  I would have taken it into court for one thing, and while the case was going on I’d have knocked his face to a jelly.”

Yakov Ivanitch was disliked because, when anyone believes differently from others, it upsets even people who are indifferent to religion.  The policeman disliked him also because he, too, sold horses and carriages.

“You don’t care about going to law with your cousin because you have plenty of money of your own,” said the waiter to Matvey, looking at him with envy.  “It is all very well for anyone who has means, but here I shall die in this position, I suppose. . . .”

Matvey began declaring that he hadn’t any money at all, but Sergey Nikanoritch was not listening.  Memories of the past and of the insults which he endured every day came showering upon him.  His bald head began to perspire; he flushed and blinked.

“A cursed life!” he said with vexation, and he banged the sausage on the floor.