In fact, you’re even better-looking. Anyway, you won’t mind if I continue shaving; you just sit down here where I can see you, and we can chat.”

So Pyotr Ivanych carried on doing what he was doing as if there was no one else there, moving his tongue from side to side as he soaped his cheeks. Alexander was so taken aback by this treatment that he was at a loss about how to start the conversation. He put down his uncle’s chilly reception to the fact that he had not come straight to him.

“So, how is your mother? Is she well? I imagine she must have aged somewhat?” his uncle asked, grimacing into the shaving mirror.

“She is well, thank God, and sends you her greetings, and so does Auntie Maria Pavlovna,” Alexander Fyodorych said shyly. “Auntie told me to embrace you,” he said as he stood up, and made as if to kiss his uncle on the cheek, the head, the shoulder or indeed anything within range.

“At her age, your auntie should have more sense, but I see that she’s just as foolish as she was twenty years ago…”

Nonplussed, Alexander retreated back to where he had been sitting.

“Did you get a letter, Uncle?” he asked.

“Yes, I did.”

“Vasily Tikhonych Zayezzhalov wants your help with a problem…”

“Yes, he wrote to me about it… Are there really such asses still around in your village?”

Alexander was so confounded by his uncle’s response, that he couldn’t even gather his wits.

“I’m sorry, Uncle…” he began nervously.

“What about?”

“For not coming straight to you, and first putting up at the coaching inn… I didn’t know how to find your apartment…”

“No need to apologize. You did the right thing. I don’t know what your mother was thinking of, sending you here without even knowing if you could stay here or not. As you can see it’s just a bachelor’s flat – just for one person – a hallway, a drawing room, a dining room, a study and a workroom, plus a dressing room, and a bathroom – there’s no other room. We’d get in each other’s way. Anyway, I’ve found a place for you to stay in this building…”

“Oh, Uncle, how can I thank you for such thoughtfulness?”

Once again he jumped up from where he was sitting in order to express his gratitude both verbally and physically.

“Be careful, be careful, don’t touch me,” said his uncle, “the razor’s terribly sharp, and before you know it you’ll be cutting yourself and me.”

Alexander realized that in spite of all his efforts on that day he would never succeed in embracing and hugging the uncle he so admired, and decided to try again on another occasion.

“The room is very cheerful,” Pyotr Ivanych began, “the view through the windows is of a wall, but you’re certainly not going to be sitting by the window all day; if you’re at home, you’ll be busy doing something, and won’t have time to be gazing at the window. And it’s not expensive: just forty roubles a month. There’s an entrance hall for your servant. You’ll have to learn to live by yourself without a nanny right from the start, and how to run a household – in other words, provide your own food and drink – in a word, create a home of your own, or un chez-soi,* as the French say. You’ll be able to invite any visitors you choose… and incidentally, when I’m dining at home, you are welcome to join me, and at other times – young people around here usually eat at a tavern, but I advise you to send out for your food: it’s quieter at home, and you won’t run the risk of running into undesirables. All right?”

“I’m really grateful, Uncle…”

“What for? You’re family. I’m just doing my duty. Now, I’m going to get dressed and go out; I have my work, and a factory to run…”

“I didn’t know you had a factory, Uncle.”

“Glass and porcelain; but it’s not mine alone, I have three partners.”

“Is it doing well?”

“Yes, reasonably; we sell mostly to neighbouring provinces at trade fairs. For the last two years business has been booming! If we do as well for the next five years, so much the better. One of the partners is not too reliable – he only knows how to spend, but I manage to keep him in hand. Well, I’m on my way now. Why don’t you go out and look around the city, walk around, have a meal somewhere, and in the evening come back here and we’ll have tea? I’ll be at home and we can talk. Vasily! Show him the room. And help him to settle in.”

“So that’s the way it is in St Petersburg…” thought Alexander, sitting in his new home. “If my own uncle is like this, then what are the others going to be like?…”

Young Aduyev paced back and forth in his room, lost in thought, while Yevsei moved around it putting things in order and talking to himself.

“What kind of place is this?” he grumbled. “Pyotr Ivanych has his own kitchen, but would you believe, the stove is only heated once a month, and the servants have to eat out. Good Lord, what strange people! And they’re what people call Petersburgers! Where we come from, even dogs have their own bowls to feed from.”

Alexander, it seems, was of the same opinion, although he didn’t actually say anything. He went to the window, but there was nothing to see but roofs and chimneys, and the blackened, dirty sides of the brick houses… and when he compared that sight with what he had seen two weeks ago from the window of his home in the country, it made him sad.

He went out into the street: nothing but hustle and bustle, everyone rushing somewhere or other, totally self-absorbed, hardly sparing a glance for the people they passed – and even then it was only to avoid bumping into one another. He thought of his provincial town, where everyone you happened to run into had something of interest to tell you. Here was Ivan Ivanych on his way to meet Pyotr Petrovich – and everyone in town knew why. There was Maria Martynova on her way back from vespers, and Afanasy Savich going fishing.