Ivanov had never heard of him before.
Mintz was clean-shaven and had long fair hair; he wore steel-rimmed
pince-nez over his cold grey eyes which he often took off and put on
again; when he did so his eyes changed, looking helpless and
malicious without the glasses, like those of little owlets in
daylight; his thin, shaven lips were closely compressed, and there
was often an expression of mistrust and decrepitude in his face; his
conversation and movements were noisy.
Lydia Constantinovna had arrived with Mintz the day before at dusk;
Ivanov was not at home. They had gone for a walk in the evening,
returning only at two o'clock when dawn was just about to break, and
a cold mist hung over the earth like a soft grey veil. They were met
by barking dogs which were quickly silenced by the lash of Ignat's
whip.
Ivanov had come home earlier, at eleven o'clock, and sat by his study
window alone, listening to the gentle sounds of night and the
ceaseless hootings of the owls in the park. Lydia Constantinovna did
not come to him, nor did he go in to her.
It was in the daytime that Ivanov first saw the artist. Mintz was
sitting in the park on a dried turf-bench, and gazing intently at the
river. Ivanov passed him. The artist's shrunken ruffled figure had an
air of desolation and abandonment.
The drawing-room was next to Ivanov's study.
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