Mikhalevitch did not get on well with Lemm: his vociferous speeches, his harsh manners, frightened the German, who was not used to such things.... An unfortunate wretch always scents another unfortunate wretch from afar, but rarely makes up to him in old age,--and this is not in the least to be wondered at: he has nothing to share with him,--not even hopes. Before his departure, Mikhalevitch had another long talk with Lavretzky, prophesied perdition to him, if he did not come to a sense of his errors, entreated him to occupy himself seriously with the existence of his peasants, set himself up as an example, saying, that he had been purified in the furnace of affliction,--and immediately thereafter, several times mentioned himself as a happy man, compared himself to the birds of heaven, the lilies of the field.... "A black lily, at any rate,"--remarked Lavretzky. "Eh, brother, don't put on any of your aristocratic airs,"--retorted Mikhalevitch, good-naturedly:--"but thank God, rather, that in thy veins flows honest, plebeian blood. But I perceive, that thou art now in need of some pure, unearthly being, who shall wrest thee from this apathy of thine." "Thanks, brother,"--said Lavretzky:--"I have had enough of those unearthly beings." "Shut up, _cuinuik!_"--exclaimed Mikhalevitch. "Cynic,"--Lavretzky corrected him. "Just so, _cuinuik_,"--repeated Mikhalevitch, in no wise disconcerted. Even as he took his seat in the tarantas, to which his flat, yellow, strangely light trunk was carried forth, he continued to talk; wrapped up in some sort of a Spanish cloak with a rusty collar, and lion's paws in place of clasps, he still went on setting forth his views as to the fate of Russia, and waving his swarthy hand through the air, as though he were sowing the seeds of its future welfare. At last the horses started.... "Bear in mind my last three words,"--he shouted, thrusting his whole body out of the tarantas, and balancing himself:--"religion, progress, humanity!... Farewell!" His head, with its cap pulled down to the very eyes, vanished. Lavretzky remained standing alone on the porch and staring down the road until the tarantas disappeared from his sight. "But I think he probably is right,"--he said to himself, as he reentered the house:--"probably I am a trifler." Many of Mikhalevitch's words had sunk indelibly into his soul, although he had disputed and had not agreed with him. If only a man be kindly, no one can repulse him. ----- [10] Polish for "gentlewoman."--Translator. XXVI