Yet, increasingly though Ordynov became a recluse (for it may be said that his German hosts did not interfere with him at all), there were times when he would take long, aimless walks through the streets, and always choose the most unfrequented hours and places for his purpose. One gloomy evening in spring he encountered, in one such deserted spot, Yaroslav Ilyitch. Certainly Yaroslav’s health seemed visibly to have deteriorated, for his once kindly eyes had grown dull, and his general appearance looked dejected. Moreover, though in former days he had always appeared to be pressed for time and full of appointments, his clothes on the present occasion looked dirty and mud-stained, and the evening rain had turned his honest, though slightly empurpled, nose into a veritable water-spout. Even his side whiskers now hung neglected, and this fact, combined with a certain disposition to avoid an old friend, at once caught Ordynov’s attention. Though himself only too anxious to escape condolences, he felt wounded and hurt at such behaviour. He preferred that Yaroslav should be as he had always been—namely, simple, outspoken, and a little uncouth, but never pretentious of being blasé, nor yet of being full of schemes for self-education. For is it not an annoying thing to find that a person whom hitherto we have loved precisely for his stupidity has suddenly become “clever”? However, Yaroslav’s shyness did not last long. Out of love with life though he was, he could never wholly shed his true nature—the mantle which true bons vivants discard only in the grave. Delicately, as of old, he proceeded to probe the soul of his friend. After remarking that he (the speaker) was very busy, he went on to state that it was a long time “since you and I last met.” Then the conversation took a strange turn—namely, that Yaroslav Ilyitch fell to discoursing on the hypocrisy of people in general, the vanity of looking for any happiness in this world, and the particular futility which is known as “life.” En passant, of course, he dragged in the name of Pushkin, but this time with a marked air of indifference. Next he spoke of “good friends” in a cynical vein, and inveighed against the falseness and mendacity of persons who professed to be “friends,” yet among whom sincere friendship did not exist, and never had existed. Yes, Yaroslav Ilyitch had indeed become “clever”! Ordynov said nothing to contradict him, but felt extremely depressed. In fact, he felt as though he were assisting at the interment of his best comrade.

“Just think, too!” said Yaroslav, as though suddenly recalling a very interesting item. “There is a piece of news which I had almost forgotten to tell you. I do so now in strict confidence. You remember the tenement where you used to lodge, do you not?”

Ordynov trembled and turned pale.

“Well, they have just unearthed a band of criminals there!—a regular association, a regular nest, of them!—smugglers, sharpers, and felons of all sorts! Some of them were arrested, and the others are still being looked for. The strictest instructions have been given for their capture. But the point which beats all others is this. You remember the proprietor of the buildings—a most pious, respectable, outwardly irreproachable old man?”