The old man, who was still vainly endeavouring to hit the white ball with his cue, would, in Pákhtin’s opinion, be very much delighted to hear the news. He went up to him.
“Are you playing well, your Excellency?” he said, just as the old man stuck his cue into the marker’s red waistcoat, wishing to indicate that it had to be chalked.
“Your Excellency” was not said, as you might think, from a desire of being subservient (no, that was not the fashion in ’56). Iván Pávlovich was in the habit of calling the old man by his name and patronymic, but this was said partly as a joke on men who spoke that way, partly in order to hint that he knew full well to whom he was talking, and yet was taking liberties, and partly in truth: altogether it was a very delicate jest.
“I have just learned that Peter Labázov has returned. Straight from Siberia, with his whole family.”
These words Pákhtin pronounced just as the old man again missed his ball, for such was his bad luck.
“If he has returned as cracked as he went away, there is no cause for rejoicing,” gruffly said the old man, who was irritated by his incomprehensible failure.
This statement vexed Iván Pávlovich, and again he was at a loss whether there was any cause for rejoicing at Labázov’s return, and, in order fully to settle his doubt, he directed his steps to a room, where generally assembled the clever people, who knew the meaning and value of each thing, and, in short, knew everything. Iván Pávlovich was on the same footing of friendship with the frequenters of the intellectual room as with the gilded youths and with the dignitaries. It is true, he had no special place of his own in the intellectual room, but nobody was surprised to see him enter and seat himself on a divan. They were just