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Smerdyakov
He did in fact find his father still at table. Though there was a dining-room in the house, the table was laid as usual in the drawing room, which was the largest room, and furnished with old-fashioned ostentation. The furniture was white and very old, upholstered in old, red, silky material. In the spaces between the windows there were mirrors in elaborate white and gilt frames, of old-fashioned carving. On the walls, covered with white paper, which was torn in many places, there hung two large portraits—one of some prince who had been governor of the district thirty years before, and the other of some bishop, also long since dead. In the corner opposite the door there were several ikons, before which a lamp was lighted at nightfall... not so much for devotional purposes as to light the room. Fyodor Pavlovitch used to go to bed very late, at three or four o'clock in the morning,and would wander about the room at night or sit in an armchair, thinking. This had become a habit with him. He often slept quite alone in the house, sending his servants to the lodge; but usually Smerdyakov remained, sleeping on a bench in the hall.
When Alyosha came in, dinner was over, but coffee and preserves
had been served. Fyodor Pavlovitch liked sweet things with brandy
after dinner. Ivan was also at table, sipping coffee. The servants, Grigory and Smerdyakov, were standing by. Both the gentlemen and the servants seemed in singularly good spirits. Fyodor Pavlovitch was roaring with laughter. Before he entered the room, Alyosha heard the shrill laugh he knew so well, and could tell from the sound of it that his father had only reached the good-humoured stage, and was far from being completely drunk.
"Here he is! Here he is!" yelled Fyodor Pavlovitch, highly
delighted at seeing Alyosha. "Join us. Sit down. Coffee is a lenten
dish, but it's hot and good. I don't offer you brandy, you're
keeping the fast. But would you like some? No; I'd better give you
some of our famous liqueur. Smerdyakov, go to the cupboard, the second
shelf on the right. Here are the keys. Look sharp!"
Alyosha began refusing the liqueur.
"Never mind. If you won't have it, we will," said Fyodor
Pavlovitch, beaming. "But stay—have you dined?"
"Yes," answered Alyosha, who had in truth only eaten a piece of
bread and drunk a glass of kvass in the Father Superior's kitchen. "Though I should be pleased to have some hot coffee."
"Bravo, my darling! He'll have some coffee. Does it want
warming? No, it's boiling. It's capital coffee: Smerdyakov's making. My Smerdyakov's an artist at coffee and at fish patties, and at fish soup, too. You must come one day and have some fish soup. Let me know beforehand.... But, stay; didn't I tell you this morning to come home with your mattress and pillow and all? Have you brought your mattress? He he he!"
"No, I haven't," said Alyosha, smiling, too.
"Ah, but you were frightened, you were frightened this morning, weren't you? There, my darling, I couldn't do anything to vex you. Do you know, Ivan, I can't resist the way he looks one straight in the face and laughs? It makes me laugh all over. I'm so fond of him. Alyosha, let me give you my blessing—a father's blessing."
Alyosha rose, but Fyodor Pavlovitch had already changed his mind.
"No, no," he said. "I'll just make the sign of the cross over you, for now. Sit still. Now we've a treat for you, in your own line, too. It'll make you laugh. Balaam's ass has begun talking to us here—and how he talks! How he talks!
Balaam's ass, it appeared, was the valet, Smerdyakov. He was a
young man of about four and twenty, remarkably unsociable and
taciturn. Not that he was shy or bashful. On the contrary, he was
conceited and seemed to despise everybody.