From the very first the
Spaniard took him to be a mysterious man, probably a very distinguished
one--a true hero of a novel. The foreign appearance of this Tchernoff
made a great impression upon him--his dishevelled beard, and oily
locks, his spectacles upon a large nose that seemed deformed by a
dagger-thrust. There emanated from him, like an invisible nimbus, an
odor of cheap wine and soiled clothing.
When Argensola caught a glimpse of him through the service door he would
say to himself, "Ah, Friend Tchernoff is returning," and thereupon
he would saunter out to the stairway in order to have a chat with his
neighbor. For a long time the stranger discouraged all approach to his
quarters, which fact led the Spaniard to infer that he devoted himself
to alchemy and kindred mysteries. When he finally was allowed to enter
he saw only books, many books, books everywhere--scattered on the floor,
heaped upon benches, piled in corners, overflowing on to broken-down
chairs, old tables, and a bed that was only made up now and then when
the owner, alarmed by the increasing invasion of dust and cobwebs, was
obliged to call in the aid of his friend, the concierge.
Argensola finally realized, not without a certain disenchantment, that
there was nothing mysterious in the life of the man. What he was writing
near the window were merely translations, some of them ordered, others
volunteer work for the socialist periodicals.
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