"Look now what a joyous expression it has! Do you call that an icon? It is nothing more than a picture--a blind work of art, a Nikonski joke--there is no soul in it! Would I tell you what is not true? I, an old man, persecuted for the sake of the truth! I shall soon have to go to God. I have nothing to gain by acting unfairly." He went out from the shop onto the terrace, languid with the feebleness of old age, offended by the doubt cast upon his valuation. The shopman paid a few rubles for the picture, the seller left, bowing low to Petr Vassilich, and they sent me to the tavern to get boiling water for the tea. When I returned, I would find the valuer brisk and cheerful, looking lovingly at the purchase, and thus instructing the shopman: "Look, this icon has been very carefully done! The painting is very fine, done in the fear of God. Human feelings had no part in it." "And whose work is it?" asked the shopman, beaming and jumping about for joy. "It is too soon for you to know that." "But how much would connoisseurs give for it?" "That I could not say. Give it to me, and I will show it to some one." "Och, Petr Vassilich." "And if I sell it, you shall have half the hundred rubles. Whatever there is over, that is mine!" "Och!" "You need not keep on saying 'Och'!" They drank their tea, bargaining shamelessly, looking at one another with the eyes of conspirators. That the shopman was completely under the thumb of the old man was plain, and when the latter went away, he would say to me: "Now don't you go chattering to the mistress about this deal." When they had finished talking about the sale of the icon, the shopman would ask: "And what news is there in the town, Petr Vassilich?" Smoothing his beard with his yellow fingers, laying bare his oily lips, the old man told stories of the lives of the merchants. He spoke of commercial successes, of feasts, of illnesses, of weddings, and of the infidelities of husbands and wives. He served up these greasy stories quickly and skilfully, as a good cook serves up pancakes, with a sauce of hissing laughter. The shopman's round face grew dark with envy and rapture. His eyes were wide with dreamy wistfulness, as he said complainingly: "Other people live, and here am I!" "Every one has his appointed destiny," resounded the deep voice. "Of one, the fate is heralded by angels with little silver hammers, and of another, by devils with the butt-end of an ax." This strong, muscular, old man knew everything--the whole life of the town, all the secrets of the merchants, chinovniks, priests, and citizens. He was keensighted as a bird of prey, and with this had some of the qualities of the wolf and fox. I always wanted to make him angry, but he looked at me from afar, almost as if through a fog. He seemed to me to be surrounded by a limitless space. If one went closer to him, one seemed to be falling. I felt in him some affinity to the stoker Shumov.