“Why, she is one of the shopkeepers in the town, of course,” answered the messenger in a tone of reproach.

“Ah, yes! her shop is next the one where they sell old iron.”

“No, the one beside that belongs to Anissa Nicolaevna.”

“Yes, yes, I know, little brother. I only asked you in fun—as if I could forget. I know Marya very well.”

But the messenger does not feel thoroughly convinced of this, and, anxious to execute his orders conscientiously, he insists on explaining further to Artyom:

“Marya is the little red-cheeked woman next to the fish-shop.”

“Quite so, the one next to the fish-shop. What a queer little monkey you are. Did you think I should make a mistake? Well, run and tell Marya that I am coming. Now be off!”

Then the messenger puts on his most beguiling expression, and says:

“Uncle Artyom, give me a kopeck.”

“A kopeck! And suppose I have not got one?” says Artyom, at the same time plunging his two hands into the pockets of his trousers. He never fails to find some coin. With a merry laugh, the messenger runs away at full speed to bring word to the amorous liver-seller that he has carried out her orders, and to receive his reward. He knows the value of money, and he has need of it, not only because he is hungry, but because he smokes cigarettes, drinks brandy, and has also his own little affairs of the heart. During a day following a scene of this kind, Artyom is even more inaccessible than usual to all impressions from the outside world, and even more splendid in the serene strength of his rare animal beauty.

And so he carried on his surfeited existence, from day to day, in a state, as it seemed, of almost dreamy unconsciousness, undisturbed by the jealousy and envious hatred of the men and women around him, whom he had made his enemies, but, above all, in perfect calmness, for he knew himself to be under the protection of his own formidable fist.

But in spite of this, at times the brown eyes of the handsome young man bore a dark, threatening expression, the velvet eyebrows became contracted, and a deep line furrowed the swarthy forehead.

He would rise and leave his lair to go towards the street. The nearer he approached its tumult, the rounder became the pupils of his eyes, and the more frequently delicate nostrils quivered. A yellow vest of coarse material hung over his left shoulder, the right one was covered by his shirt, under which could be distinguished his powerful shoulder. He did not like boots, and always wore bast shoes; the strips of white linen, neatly wound crossways round his legs in place of stockings, threw the muscles of his legs into relief. He walked forward slowly, like a huge threatening cloud.

His habits were well known in the suburb, and everyone could tell by the look on his face what to expect of him. A murmured warning would be heard: “Artyom is coming!”

Everyone hastened to clear the way before the handsome youth. The baskets and goods set out for sale, the portable stoves and the earthenware pots full of hot meats, are drawn back, while flattering smiles and greetings are showered upon him—the whole population, meanwhile, standing in awe of him. Sulky and silent he strides along amid these mingled signs of admiration for his person and fear of his strength, like a huge beast of the forest in his wild beauty.

His foot catches in a basket laden with tripe, liver, and lungs, and the contents are scattered over the muddy pavement. The owner cries out and curses.

“And why do you get in my way then?” asks Artyom calmly but ominously.