Presently he bethought him of taking his passport to his landlord, in the hope that he would once again see his beloved; but Murin merely opened the door a chink, took the paper, and said——

“Very well. Do not trouble me any more.”

Then the door closed again. For a moment Ordynov stood dumbfounded. Somehow the aspect of the old man, with its look of concentrated hatred and malice, hurt his feelings; but almost as instantly the disagreeable impression passed away, and for the next three days he lived in a whirlwind which contrasted curiously with his old inertia. He had neither the power nor the will to reflect. Everything was, as it were, in chaos. He only knew that his life had snapped in two, and that he had no more than a single desire—namely, to wait, to wait. No other thought occurred to his mind.

He re-entered his room, and found engaged in cooking at the stove a little old hunchbacked woman who was so dirty and ragged that he really felt sorry for her. Also, her temper seemed to be bad, for she was muttering to herself, and constantly making grimaces. This was the maid-of-all-work. Ordynov tried to engage her in conversation, but she remained obstinately silent—evidently out of spite. When the dinner hour was arrived she drew from the stove some cabbage soup, rolls, and a piece of meat, and carried them to her master’s room; after which she allotted Ordynov a similar portion. Dinner over, complete silence reigned in the flat.

Ordynov took a book, and slowly turned the leaves of it. Yet, though for a long while he tried to force himself to understand what he was reading, he never wholly succeeded in doing so. Impatiently he threw the book aside, and once more tried to produce order among his effects. Finally he took down his hat and coat, and went out. He walked at random as he endeavoured to recover himself, to collect his scattered thoughts, and to take stock of the situation; but the effort only served to increase his sufferings. Hot flushes and cold shivers kept seizing upon him by turns, so that at times his heart beat with a violence which forced him to lean against a wall.

“I would rather be dead,” he thought to himself. “Yes, I would rather be dead.” Yet his inflamed, quivering lips hardly knew what they were saying.

On, on he walked, until at length he realised that he was wet through, and that rain was falling in torrents; whereupon he turned homewards. As he drew near his new abode he caught sight of his acquaintance the dvornik. At once he became seized with an idea that the Tartar had looked at him with extreme curiosity, and then pretended to move away when he found that Ordynov noticed his action.

“Good-evening,” said Ordynov as he caught the man up. “What is your name?”

“I am called the dvornik,” the porter replied with a grin.