Soon they entered the courtyard of Murin’s abode. On perceiving them, the dvornik took off his cap, but threw a malicious glance at Ordynov.

“Is your mother in my tenement?” Murin asked of the Tartar.

“Yes.”

“Then tell her to give this gentleman a hand in packing his luggage. And do you too make yourself generally useful.”

Mounting the staircase, they induced the old serving-woman, who was also the dvornik’s mother, to cease grumbling and roll Ordynov’s effects into a bundle.

“Wait a moment,” said Murin to Ordynov. “I have something else to bring you.” With that he entered his room, and presently returned with a richly embroidered tablecloth—the one which Katerina had thrust under his (Ordynov’s) head when he was first taken ill.

“She sends you this,” said Murin. “Now, depart in peace, and may all good go with you. Yet take care. Do not again come prowling round here, or things may turn out badly for you.”

This he said in a low—almost a paternal—voice, as though he feared to offend Ordynov. Yet his last glance at his departing lodger was full of nothing but infinite resentment, and he closed the door upon the young man with a look of unbounded disgust.

Two hours later Ordynov went to live with the German, Herr Schpis, whose daughter, Tinchen, exclaimed, “Ah! How delightful it is to see him again!” and demanded of him news. On hearing, however, that he was “not feeling very well,” she promised to do her best for him; while Schpis, for his part, informed his lodger that he had not yet put up the “To Let” bill again, though in a day or two he would have done so, for the reason that the term covered by Ordynov’s deposit money would then have expired. Finally the good Schpis took occasion to extol the honesty and correctitude of German folk in general.

That same day Ordynov again fell ill, and for three months never left his bed. Then, little by little, health returned to him, and he began to go out for walks. His life at Schpis’s was an even, uneventful one, since the German was good-natured, and Tinchen too all that could be desired. Yet, for Ordynov, life had lost its charm. He became irritable, and subject to sickly impressions, until gradually he sank into a state of confirmed hypochondria. For weeks at a time he would never open a book, but, careless of the future, would let his money slip away without taking any thought for the needs of the morrow. Also, though there were times when his old feverish industry, his old ardour, his old visions, would return to his memory, those thoughts never became translated into action. He felt, as it were, sterilised—his dreams seemed to be sent to him for the express purpose of mocking his impotence (which, in his imagination, had come to assume gigantic proportions). In hours of depression he would even liken himself to the sorcerer’s thoughtless apprentice who, after bidding water be turned on to his room, was drowned in the flood which it caused, through not knowing the magic word for “Cease!” Perhaps, had Ordynov ever conceived any original idea or cherished any hopes for the future, he would still have continued to believe in something—and a sincere faith is a safeguard against all the ills of life. Now, however, he only smiled at his own convictions, and ceased to take any interest in his erstwhile splendid schemes.