form into a real masculine moustache, while his little beard belonged
to that class of good-for-nothing beards which among divinity
students are for some reason called "ticklers." It was scanty and
extremely transparent; it could not have been stroked or combed,
it could only have been pinched. . . . All these scanty decorations
were put on unevenly in tufts, as though Father Yakov, thinking to
dress up as a priest and beginning to gum on the beard, had been
interrupted halfway through. He had on a cassock, the colour of
weak coffee with chicory in it, with big patches on both elbows.

"A queer type," thought Kunin, looking at his muddy skirts. "Comes
to the house for the first time and can't dress decently.

"Sit down, Father," he began more carelessly than cordially, as he
moved an easy-chair to the table. "Sit down, I beg you."

Father Yakov coughed into his fist, sank awkwardly on to the edge
of the chair, and laid his open hands on his knees. With his short
figure, his narrow chest, his red and perspiring face, he made from
the first moment a most unpleasant impression on Kunin. The latter
could never have imagined that there were such undignified and
pitiful-looking priests in Russia; and in Father Yakov's attitude,
in the way he held his hands on his knees and sat on the very edge
of his chair, he saw a lack of dignity and even a shade of servility.

"I have invited you on business, Father. . . ." Kunin began, sinking
back in his low chair. "It has fallen to my lot to perform the
agreeable duty of helping you in one of your useful undertakings.
. . . On coming back from Petersburg, I found on my table a letter
from the Marshal of Nobility. Yegor Dmitrevitch suggests that I