We learnt at once that Semyon Yakovlevitch was dining, but was receiving guests.
The whole crowd of us went in.
The room in which the saint dined and received visitors had three windows, and was fairly large. It was divided into two equal parts by a wooden lattice-work partition, which ran from wall to wall, and was three or four feet high.
Ordinary visitors remained on the outside of this partition, but lucky ones were by the saint's invitation admitted through the partition doors into his half of the room. And if so disposed he made them sit down on the sofa or on his old leather chairs. He himself invariably sat in an old-fashioned shabby Voltaire arm-chair.
He was a rather big, bloated-looking, yellow-faced man of five and fifty, with a bald head and scanty flaxen hair. He wore no beard; his right cheek was swollen, and his mouth seemed somehow twisted awry. He had a large wart on the left side of his nose; narrow eyes, and a calm, stolid, sleepy expression.
He was dressed in European style, in a black coat, but had no waistcoat or tie.
A rather coarse, but white shirt, peeped out below his coat. There was something the matter with his feet, I believe, and he kept them in slippers.
I've heard that he had at one time been a clerk, and received a rank in the service.
He had just finished some fish soup, and was beginning his second dish of potatoes in their skins, eaten with salt.
He never ate anything else, but he drank a great deal of tea, of which he was very fond.
Three servants provided by the merchant were running to and fro about him. One of them was in a swallow-tail, the second looked like a workman, and the third like a verger.
There was also a very lively boy of sixteen.
Besides the servants there was present, holding a jug, a reverend, grey-headed monk, who was a little too fat.
On one of the tables a huge samovar was boiling, and a tray with almost two dozen glasses was standing near it.
On another table opposite offerings had been placed: some loaves and also some pounds of sugar, two pounds of tea, a pair of embroidered slippers, a foulard handkerchief, a length of cloth, a piece of linen, and so on.
Money offerings almost all went into the monk's jug.
The room was full of people, at least a dozen visitors, of whom two were sitting with Semyon Yakovlevitch on the other side of the partition. One was a grey-headed old pilgrim of the peasant class, and the other a little, dried-up monk, who sat demurely, with his eyes cast down.
The other visitors were all standing on the near side of the partition, and were mostly, too, of the peasant class, except one elderly and poverty-stricken lady, one landowner, and a stout merchant, who had come from the district town, a man with a big beard, dressed in the Russian style, though he was known to be worth a hundred thousand.
All were waiting for their chance, not daring to speak of themselves.
Four were on their knees, but the one who attracted most attention was the landowner, a stout man of forty-five, kneeling right at the partition, more conspicuous than any one, waiting reverently for a propitious word or look from Semyon Yakovlevitch.
He had been there for about an hour already, but the saint still did not notice him.
Our ladies crowded right up to the partition, whispering gaily and laughingly together.
They pushed aside or got in front of all the other visitors, even those on their knees, except the landowner, who remained obstinately in his prominent position even holding on to the partition.
Merry and greedily inquisitive eyes were turned upon Semyon Yakovlevitch, as well as lorgnettes, pince-nez, and even opera-glasses. Lyamshin, at any rate, looked through an opera-glass.
Semyon Yakovlevitch calmly and lazily scanned all with his little eyes.
"Milovzors! Milovzors!" he deigned to pronounce, in a hoarse bass, and slightly staccato.
All our party laughed:
"What's the meaning of 'Milovzors'?"
But Semyon Yakovlevitch relapsed into silence, and finished his potatoes.
Presently he wiped his lips with his napkin, and they handed him tea.
As a rule, he did not take tea alone, but poured out some for his visitors, but by no means for all, usually pointing himself to those he wished to honour.
And his choice always surprised people by its unexpectedness.
Passing by the wealthy and the high-placed, he sometimes pitched upon a peasant or some decrepit old woman. Another time he would pass over the beggars to honour some fat wealthy merchant.
Tea was served differently, too, to different people, sugar was put into some of the glasses and handed separately with others, while some got it without any sugar at all.
This time the favoured one was the monk sitting by him, who had sugar put in; and the old pilgrim, to whom it was given without any sugar.
The fat monk with the jug, from the monastery, for some reason had none handed to him at all, though up till then he had had his glass every day.
"Semyon Yakovlevitch, do say something to me. I've been longing to make your acquaintance forever so long," carolled the gorgeously dressed lady from our carriage, screwing up her eyes and smiling. She was the lady who had observed that one must not be squeamish about one's amusements, so long as they were interesting.
Semyon Yakovlevitch did not even look at her.
The kneeling landowner uttered a deep, sonorous sigh, like the sound of a big pair of bellows.
"With sugar in it!" said Semyon Yakovlevitch suddenly, pointing to the wealthy merchant. The latter moved forward and stood beside the kneeling gentleman.
"Some more sugar for him!" ordered Semyon Yakovlevitch, after the glass had already been poured out. They put some more in.
"More, more, for him!"
More was put in a third time, and again a fourth.
The merchant began submissively drinking his syrup.
"Heavens!" whispered the people, crossing themselves.
The kneeling gentleman again heaved a deep, sonorous sigh.
"Father!
Semyon Yakovlevitch!" The voice of the poor lady rang out all at once plaintively, though so sharply that it was startling. Our party had shoved her back to the wall.
"A whole hour, dear father, I've been waiting for grace.
Speak to me. Consider my case in my helplessness."