No More Learning

On the way he
considered how he could present himself before Yulian Mastakovitch, and
whether it would be appropriate and not impertinent. He went into the
office timidly, and timidly inquired whether His Excellency were there;
receiving the answer that he was not and would not be, Arkady Ivanovitch
instantly thought of going to his flat, but reflected very prudently
that if Yulian Mastakovitch had not come to the office he would
certainly be busy at home. He remained. The hours seemed to him endless.
Indirectly he inquired about the work entrusted to Shumkov, but no one
knew anything about this. All that was known was that Yulian
Mastakovitch did employ him on special jobs, but what they were--no one
could say. At last it struck three o'clock, and Arkady Ivanovitch rushed
out, eager to get home. In the vestibule he was met by a clerk, who told
him that Vassily Petrovitch Shumkov had come about one o'clock and
asked, the clerk added, "whether you were here, and whether Yulian
Mastakovitch had been here. " Hearing this Arkady Ivanovitch took a
sledge and hastened home beside himself with alarm.

Shumkov was at home. He was walking about the room in violent
excitement. Glancing at Arkady Ivanovitch, he immediately controlled
himself, reflected, and hastened to conceal his emotion. He sat down to
his papers without a word. He seemed to avoid his friend's questions,
seemed to be bothered by them, to be pondering to himself on some plan,
and deciding to conceal his decision, because he could not reckon
further on his friend's affection. This struck Arkady, and his heart
ached with a poignant and oppressive pain. He sat on the bed and began
turning over the leaves of some book, the only one he had in his
possession, keeping his eye on poor Vasya. But Vasya remained
obstinately silent, writing, and not raising his head. So passed several
hours, and Arkady's misery reached an extreme point. At last, at eleven
o'clock, Vasya lifted his head and looked with a fixed, vacant stare at
Arkady. Arkady waited. Two or three minutes passed; Vasya did not speak.

"Vasya! " cried Arkady.

Vasya made no answer.

"Vasya! " he repeated, jumping up from the bed, "Vasya, what is the
matter with you? What is it? " he cried, running up to him.

Vasya raised his eyes and again looked at him with the same vacant,
fixed stare.

"He's in a trance! " thought Arkady, trembling all over with fear. He
seized a bottle of water, raised Vasya, poured some water on his head,
moistened his temples, rubbed his hands in his own--and Vasya came to
himself. "Vasya, Vasya! " cried Arkady, unable to restrain his tears.
"Vasya, save yourself, rouse yourself, rouse yourself! . . . " He could say
no more, but held him tight in his arms. A look as of some oppressive
sensation passed over Vasya's face; he rubbed his forehead and clutched
at his head, as though he were afraid it would burst.

"I don't know what is the matter with me," he added, at last. "I feel
torn to pieces. Come, it's all right, it's all right! Give over, Arkady;
don't grieve," he repeated, looking at him with sad, exhausted eyes.
"Why be so anxious? Come! "

"You, you comforting me! " cried Arkady, whose heart was torn. "Vasya,"
he said at last, "lie down and have a little nap, won't you? Don't wear
yourself out for nothing! You'll set to work better afterwards. "

"Yes, yes," said Vasya, "by all means, I'll lie down, very good. Yes!
you see I meant to finish, but now I've changed my mind, yes. . . . "

And Arkady led him to the bed.

"Listen, Vasya," he said firmly, "we must settle this matter finally.
Tell me what were you thinking about? "

"Oh! " said Vasya, with a flourish of his weak hand turning over on the
other side.

"Come, Vasya, come, make up your mind. I don't want to hurt you. I can't
be silent any longer. You won't sleep till you've made up your mind, I
know. "

"As you like, as you like," Vasya repeated enigmatically.

"He will give in," thought Arkady Ivanovitch.

"Attend to me, Vasya," he said, "remember what I say, and I will save
you to-morrow; to-morrow I will decide your fate! What am I saying, your
fate? You have so frightened me, Vasya, that I am using your own words.
Fate, indeed! It's simply nonsense, rubbish! You don't want to lose
Yulian Mastakovitch's favour--affection, if you like. No! And you won't
lose it, you will see. I----"

Arkady Ivanovitch would have said more, but Vasya interrupted him. He
sat up in bed, put both arms round Arkady Ivanovitch's neck and kissed
him.

"Enough," he said in a weak voice, "enough! Say no more about that! "

And again he turned his face to the wall.

"My goodness! " thought Arkady, "my goodness! What is the matter with
him? He is utterly lost. What has he in his mind! He will be his own
undoing. "

Arkady looked at him in despair.

"If he were to fall ill," thought Arkady, "perhaps it would be better.
His trouble would pass off with illness, and that might be the best way
of settling the whole business. But what nonsense I am talking. Oh, my
God! "

Meanwhile Vasya seemed to be asleep. Arkady Ivanovitch was relieved. "A
good sign," he thought. He made up his mind to sit beside him all night.
But Vasya was restless; he kept twitching and tossing about on the bed,
and opening his eyes for an instant. At last exhaustion got the upper
hand, he slept like the dead. It was about two o'clock in the morning,
Arkady Ivanovitch began to doze in the chair with his elbow on the
table!

He had a strange and agitated dream. He kept fancying that he was not
asleep, and that Vasya was still lying on the bed. But strange to say,
he fancied that Vasya was pretending, that he was deceiving him, that he
was getting up, stealthily watching him out of the corner of his eye,
and was stealing up to the writing table. Arkady felt a scalding pain at
his heart; he felt vexed and sad and oppressed to see Vasya not trusting
him, hiding and concealing himself from him. He tried to catch hold of
him, to call out, to carry him to the bed. Then Vasya kept shrieking in
his arms, and he laid on the bed a lifeless corpse. He opened his eyes
and woke up; Vasya was sitting before him at the table, writing.

Hardly able to believe his senses, Arkady glanced at the bed; Vasya was
not there. Arkady jumped up in a panic, still under the influence of his
dream. Vasya did not stir; he went on writing. All at once Arkady
noticed with horror that Vasya was moving a dry pen over the paper, was
turning over perfectly blank pages, and hurrying, hurrying to fill up
the paper as though he were doing his work in a most thorough and
efficient way. "No, this is not a trance," thought Arkady Ivanovitch,
and he trembled all over.

"Vasya, Vasya, speak to me," he cried, clutching him by the shoulder.
But Vasya did not speak; he went on as before, scribbling with a dry pen
over the paper.

"At last I have made the pen go faster," he said, without looking up at
Arkady.

Arkady seized his hand and snatched away the pen.

A moan broke from Vasya. He dropped his hand and raised his eyes to
Arkady; then with an air of misery and exhaustion he passed his hand
over his forehead as though he wanted to shake off some leaden weight
that was pressing upon his whole being, and slowly, as though lost in
thought, he let his head sink on his breast.

"Vasya, Vasya! " cried Arkady in despair. "Vasya! "

A minute later Vasya looked at him, tears stood in his large blue eyes,
and his pale, mild face wore a look of infinite suffering. He whispered
something.

"What, what is it? " cried Arkady, bending down to him.

"What for, why are they doing it to me? " whispered Vasya. "What for?
What have I done? "

"Vasya, what is it? What are you afraid of? What is it? " cried Arkady,
wringing his hands in despair.

"Why are they sending me for a soldier? " said Vasya, looking his friend
straight in the face. "Why is it? What have I done? "

Arkady's hair stood on end with horror; he refused to believe his ears.
He stood over him, half dead.

A minute later he pulled himself together. "It's nothing, it's only for
the minute," he said to himself, with pale face and blue, quivering
lips, and he hastened to put on his outdoor things. He meant to run
straight for a doctor. All at once Vasya called to him. Arkady rushed to
him and clasped him in his arms like a mother whose child is being torn
from her.

"Arkady, Arkady, don't tell any one! Don't tell any one, do you hear? It
is my trouble, I must bear it alone. "

"What is it--what is it? Rouse yourself, Vasya, rouse yourself! "

Vasya sighed, and slow tears trickled down his cheeks.

"Why kill her? How is she to blame? " he muttered in an agonized,
heartrending voice. "The sin is mine, the sin is mine! "

He was silent for a moment.

"Farewell, my love! Farewell, my love! " he whispered, shaking his
luckless head. Arkady started, pulled himself together and would have
rushed for the doctor. "Let us go, it is time," cried Vasya, carried
away by Arkady's last movement. "Let us go, brother, let us go; I am
ready. You lead the way. " He paused and looked at Arkady with a downcast
and mistrustful face.

"Vasya, for goodness' sake, don't follow me! Wait for me here. I will
come back to you directly, directly," said Arkady Ivanovitch, losing his
head and snatching up his cap to run for a doctor. Vasya sat down at
once, he was quiet and docile; but there was a gleam of some desperate
resolution in his eye. Arkady turned back, snatched up from the table an
open penknife, looked at the poor fellow for the last time, and ran out
of the flat.

It was eight o'clock. It had been broad daylight for some time in the
room.

He found no one. He was running about for a full hour. All the doctors
whose addresses he had got from the house porter when he inquired of the
latter whether there were no doctor living in the building, had gone
out, either to their work or on their private affairs. There was one who
saw patients. This one questioned at length and in detail the servant
who announced that Nefedevitch had called, asking him who it was, from
whom he came, what was the matter, and concluded by saying that he could
not go, that he had a great deal to do, and that patients of that kind
ought to be taken to a hospital.

Then Arkady, exhausted, agitated, and utterly taken aback by this turn
of affairs, cursed all the doctors on earth, and rushed home in the
utmost alarm about Vasya. He ran into the flat. Mavra, as though there
were nothing the matter, went on scrubbing the floor, breaking up wood
and preparing to light the stove. He went into the room; there was no
trace of Vasya, he had gone out.

"Which way? Where? Where will the poor fellow be off to? " thought
Arkady, frozen with terror. He began questioning Mavra. She knew
nothing, had neither seen nor heard him go out, God bless him!
Nefedevitch rushed off to the Artemyevs'.

It occurred to him for some reason that he must be there.

It was ten o'clock by the time he arrived. They did not expect him, knew
nothing and had heard nothing. He stood before them frightened,
distressed, and asked where was Vasya? The mother's legs gave way under
her; she sank back on the sofa. Lizanka, trembling with alarm, began
asking what had happened. What could he say? Arkady Ivanovitch got out
of it as best he could, invented some tale which of course was not
believed, and fled, leaving them distressed and anxious. He flew to his
department that he might not be too late there, and he let them know
that steps might be taken at once. On the way it occurred to him that
Vasya would be at Yulian Mastakovitch's. That was more likely than
anything: Arkady had thought of that first of all, even before the
Artemyevs'. As he drove by His Excellency's door, he thought of
stopping, but at once told the driver to go straight on. He made up his
mind to try and find out whether anything had happened at the office,
and if he were not there to go to His Excellency, ostensibly to report
on Vasya. Some one must be informed of it.

As soon as he got into the waiting-room he was surrounded by
fellow-clerks, for the most part young men of his own standing in the
service.
With one voice they began asking him what had happened to
Vasya? At the same time they all told him that Vasya had gone out of his
mind, and thought that he was to be sent for a soldier as a punishment
for having neglected his work. Arkady Ivanovitch, answering them in all
directions, or rather avoiding giving a direct answer to any one, rushed
into the inner room. On the way he learned that Vasya was in Yulian
Mastakovitch's private room, that every one had been there and that
Esper Ivanovitch had gone in there too. He was stopped on the way. One
of the senior clerks asked him who he was and what he wanted? Without
distinguishing the person he said something about Vasya and went
straight into the room. He heard Yulian Mastakovitch's voice from
within. "Where are you going? " some one asked him at the very door.
Arkady Ivanovitch was almost in despair; he was on the point of turning
back, but through the open door he saw his poor Vasya. He pushed the
door and squeezed his way into the room. Every one seemed to be in
confusion and perplexity, because Yulian Mastakovitch was apparently
much chagrined. All the more important personages were standing about
him talking, and coming to no decision. At a little distance stood
Vasya. Arkady's heart sank when he looked at him. Vasya was standing,
pale, with his head up, stiffly erect, like a recruit before a new
officer, with his feet together and his hands held rigidly at his sides.
He was looking Yulian Mastakovitch straight in the face. Arkady was
noticed at once, and some one who knew that they lodged together
mentioned the fact to His Excellency. Arkady was led up to him. He tried
to make some answer to the questions put to him, glanced at Yulian
Mastakovitch and seeing on his face a look of genuine compassion, began
trembling and sobbing like a child. He even did more, he snatched His
Excellency's hand and held it to his eyes, wetting it with his tears, so
that Yulian Mastakovitch was obliged to draw it hastily away, and waving
it in the air, said, "Come, my dear fellow, come! I see you have a good
heart. " Arkady sobbed and turned an imploring look on every one. It
seemed to him that they were all brothers of his dear Vasya, that they
were all worried and weeping about him. "How, how has it happened? how
has it happened? " asked Yulian Mastakovitch. "What has sent him out of
his mind? "

"Gra--gra--gratitude! " was all Arkady Ivanovitch could articulate.

Every one heard his answer with amazement, and it seemed strange and
incredible to every one that a man could go out of his mind from
gratitude. Arkady explained as best he could.

"Good Heavens! what a pity! " said Yulian Mastakovitch at last. "And the
work entrusted to him was not important, and not urgent in the least. It
was not worth while for a man to kill himself over it! Well, take him
away! ". . . At this point Yulian Mastakovitch turned to Arkady Ivanovitch
again, and began questioning him once more. "He begs," he said, pointing
to Vasya, "that some girl should not be told of this. Who is she--his
betrothed, I suppose? "

Arkady began to explain. Meanwhile Vasya seemed to be thinking of
something, as though he were straining his memory to the utmost to
recall some important, necessary matter, which was particularly wanted
at this moment. From time to time he looked round with a distressed
face, as though hoping some one would remind him of what he had
forgotten. He fastened his eyes on Arkady. All of a sudden there was a
gleam of hope in his eyes; he moved with the left leg forward, took
three steps as smartly as he could, clicking with his right boot as
soldiers do when they move forward at the call from their officer. Every
one was waiting to see what would happen.

"I have a physical defect and am small and weak, and I am not fit for
military service, Your Excellency," he said abruptly.

At that every one in the room felt a pang at his heart, and firm as was
Yulian Mastakovitch's character, tears trickled from his eyes.

"Take him away," he said, with a wave of his hands.

"Present! " said Vasya in an undertone; he wheeled round to the left and
marched out of the room. All who were interested in his fate followed
him out. Arkady pushed his way out behind the others. They made Vasya
sit down in the waiting-room till the carriage came which had been
ordered to take him to the hospital. He sat down in silence and seemed
in great anxiety. He nodded to any one he recognized as though saying
good-bye. He looked round towards the door every minute, and prepared
himself to set off when he should be told it was time. People crowded in
a close circle round him; they were all shaking their heads and
lamenting. Many of them were much impressed by his story, which had
suddenly become known. Some discussed his illness, while others
expressed their pity and high opinion of Vasya, saying that he was such
a quiet, modest young man, that he had been so promising; people
described what efforts he had made to learn, how eager he was for
knowledge, how he had worked to educate himself. "He had risen by his
own efforts from a humble position," some one observed. They spoke with
emotion of His Excellency's affection for him. Some of them fell to
explaining why Vasya was possessed by the idea that he was being sent
for a soldier, because he had not finished his work. They said that the
poor fellow had so lately belonged to the class liable for military
service and had only received his first grade through the good offices
of Yulian Mastakovitch, who had had the cleverness to discover his
talent, his docility, and the rare mildness of his disposition. In fact,
there was a great number of views and theories.

A very short fellow-clerk of Vasya's was conspicuous as being
particularly distressed. He was not very young, probably about thirty.
He was pale as a sheet, trembling all over and smiling queerly, perhaps
because any scandalous affair or terrible scene both frightens, and at
the same time somewhat rejoices the outside spectator. He kept running
round the circle that surrounded Vasya, and as he was so short, stood on
tiptoe and caught at the button of every one--that is, of those with
whom he felt entitled to take such a liberty--and kept saying that he
knew how it had all happened, that it was not so simple, but a very
important matter, that it couldn't be left without further inquiry; then
stood on tiptoe again, whispered in some one's ear, nodded his head
again two or three times, and ran round again. At last everything was
over. The porter made his appearance, and an attendant from the hospital
went up to Vasya and told him it was time to start. Vasya jumped up in a
flutter and went with them, looking about him. He was looking about for
some one.

"Vasya, Vasya! " cried Arkady Ivanovitch, sobbing. Vasya stopped, and
Arkady squeezed his way up to him. They flung themselves into each
other's arms in a last bitter embrace. It was sad to see them. What
monstrous calamity was wringing the tears from their eyes! What were
they weeping for? What was their trouble? Why did they not understand
one another?

"Here, here, take it! Take care of it," said Shumkov, thrusting a paper
of some kind into Arkady's hand. "They will take it away from me. Bring
it me later on; bring it . . . take care of it. . . . " Vasya could not
finish, they called to him. He ran hurriedly downstairs, nodding to
every one, saying good-bye to every one. There was despair in his face.
At last he was put in the carriage and taken away. Arkady made haste to
open the paper: it was Liza's curl of black hair, from which Vasya had
never parted. Hot tears gushed from Arkady's eyes: oh, poor Liza!

When office hours were over, he went to the Artemyevs'. There is no need
to describe what happened there! Even Petya, little Petya, though he
could not quite understand what had happened to dear Vasya, went into a
corner, hid his face in his little hands, and sobbed in the fullness of
his childish heart. It was quite dusk when Arkady returned home. When he
reached the Neva he stood still for a minute and turned a keen glance up
the river into the smoky frozen thickness of the distance, which was
suddenly flushed crimson with the last purple and blood-red glow of
sunset, still smouldering on the misty horizon. . . . Night lay over the
city, and the wide plain of the Neva, swollen with frozen snow, was
shining in the last gleams of the sun with myriads of sparks of gleaming
hoar frost. There was a frost of twenty degrees. A cloud of frozen steam
hung about the overdriven horses and the hurrying people. The condensed
atmosphere quivered at the slightest sound, and from all the roofs on
both sides of the river, columns of smoke rose up like giants and
floated across the cold sky, intertwining and untwining as they went, so
that it seemed new buildings were rising up above the old, a new town
was taking shape in the air. . . . It seemed as if all that world, with all
its inhabitants, strong and weak, with all their habitations, the
refuges of the poor, or the gilded palaces for the comfort of the
powerful of this world was at that twilight hour like a fantastic vision
of fairy-land, like a dream which in its turn would vanish and pass away
like vapour into the dark blue sky. A strange thought came to poor
Vasya's forlorn friend. He started, and his heart seemed at that instant
flooded with a hot rush of blood kindled by a powerful, overwhelming
sensation he had never known before. He seemed only now to understand
all the trouble, and to know why his poor Vasya had gone out of his
mind, unable to bear his happiness. His lips twitched, his eyes lighted
up, he turned pale, and as it were had a clear vision into something
new.

He became gloomy and depressed, and lost all his gaiety. His old lodging
grew hateful to him--he took a new room. He did not care to visit the
Artemyevs, and indeed he could not. Two years later he met Lizanka in
church. She was by then married; beside her walked a wet nurse with a
tiny baby. They greeted each other, and for a long time avoided all
mention of the past. Liza said that, thank God, she was happy, that she
was not badly off, that her husband was a kind man and that she was fond
of him. . . . But suddenly in the middle of a sentence her eyes filled with
tears, her voice failed, she turned away, and bowed down to the church
pavement to hide her grief.




A CHRISTMAS TREE AND A WEDDING

A STORY


The other day I saw a wedding . . . but no, I had better tell you about
the Christmas tree. The wedding was nice, I liked it very much; but the
other incident was better. I don't know how it was that, looking at that
wedding, I thought of that Christmas tree. This was what happened. Just
five years ago, on New Year's Eve, I was invited to a children's party.
The giver of the party was a well-known and business-like personage,
with connections, with a large circle of acquaintances, and a good many
schemes on hand, so that it may be supposed that this party was an
excuse for getting the parents together and discussing various
interesting matters in an innocent, casual way. I was an outsider; I had
no interesting matter to contribute, and so I spent the evening rather
independently. There was another gentleman present who was, I fancied,
of no special rank or family, and who, like me, had simply turned up at
this family festivity. He was the first to catch my eye. He was a tall,
lanky man, very grave and very correctly dressed. But one could see that
he was in no mood for merrymaking and family festivity; whenever he
withdrew into a corner he left off smiling and knitted his bushy black
brows. He had not a single acquaintance in the party except his host.
One could see that he was fearfully bored, but that he was valiantly
keeping up the part of a man perfectly happy and enjoying himself. I
learned afterwards that this was a gentleman from the provinces, who had
a critical and perplexing piece of business in Petersburg, who had
brought a letter of introduction to our host, for whom our host was, by
no means _con amore_, using his interest, and whom he had invited, out
of civility, to his children's party. He did not play cards, cigars were
not offered him, every one avoided entering into conversation with him,
most likely recognizing the bird from its feathers; and so my gentleman
was forced to sit the whole evening stroking his whiskers simply to have
something to do with his hands. His whiskers were certainly very fine.
But he stroked them so zealously that, looking at him, one might have
supposed that the whiskers were created first and the gentleman only
attached to them in order to stroke them.

In addition to this individual who assisted in this way at our host's
family festivity (he had five fat, well-fed boys), I was attracted, too,
by another gentleman. But he was quite of a different sort. He was a
personage. He was called Yulian Mastakovitch. From the first glance one
could see that he was an honoured guest, and stood in the same relation
to our host as our host stood in relation to the gentleman who was
stroking his whiskers. Our host and hostess said no end of polite things
to him, waited on him hand and foot, pressed him to drink, flattered
him, brought their visitors up to be introduced to him, but did not take
him to be introduced to any one else. I noticed that tears glistened in
our host's eyes when he remarked about the party that he had rarely
spent an evening so agreeably. I felt as it were frightened in the
presence of such a personage, and so, after admiring the children, I
went away into a little parlour, which was quite empty, and sat down in
an arbour of flowers which filled up almost half the room.

The children were all incredibly sweet, and resolutely refused to model
themselves on the "grown-ups," regardless of all the admonitions of
their governesses and mammas. They stripped the Christmas tree to the
last sweetmeat in the twinkling of an eye, and had succeeded in breaking
half the playthings before they knew what was destined for which.
Particularly charming was a black-eyed, curly-headed boy, who kept
trying to shoot me with his wooden gun. But my attention was still more
attracted by his sister, a girl of eleven, quiet, dreamy, pale, with
big, prominent, dreamy eyes, exquisite as a little Cupid. The children
hurt her feelings in some way, and so she came away from them to the
same empty parlour in which I was sitting, and played with her doll in
the corner. The visitors respectfully pointed out her father, a wealthy
contractor, and some one whispered that three hundred thousand roubles
were already set aside for her dowry. I turned round to glance at the
group who were interested in such a circumstance, and my eye fell on
Yulian Mastakovitch, who, with his hands behind his back and his head on
one side, was listening with the greatest attention to these gentlemen's
idle gossip. Afterwards I could not help admiring the discrimination of
the host and hostess in the distribution of the children's presents. The
little girl, who had already a portion of three hundred thousand
roubles, received the costliest doll. Then followed presents diminishing
in value in accordance with the rank of the parents of these happy
children; finally, the child of lowest degree, a thin, freckled,
red-haired little boy of ten, got nothing but a book of stories about
the marvels of nature and tears of devotion, etc. , without pictures or
even woodcuts. He was the son of a poor widow, the governess of the
children of the house, an oppressed and scared little boy. He was
dressed in a short jacket of inferior nankin. After receiving his book
he walked round the other toys for a long time; he longed to play with
the other children, but did not dare; it was evident that he already
felt and understood his position. I love watching children. Their first
independent approaches to life are extremely interesting. I noticed that
the red-haired boy was so fascinated by the costly toys of the other
children, especially by a theatre in which he certainly longed to take
some part, that he made up his mind to sacrifice his dignity. He smiled
and began playing with the other children, he gave away his apple to a
fat-faced little boy who had a mass of goodies tied up in a
pocket-handkerchief already, and even brought himself to carry another
boy on his back, simply not to be turned away from the theatre, but an
insolent youth gave him a heavy thump a minute later. The child did not
dare to cry. Then the governess, his mother, made her appearance, and
told him not to interfere with the other children's playing. The boy
went away to the same room in which was the little girl. She let him
join her, and the two set to work very eagerly dressing the expensive
doll.

I had been sitting more than half an hour in the ivy arbour, listening
to the little prattle of the red-haired boy and the beauty with the
dowry of three hundred thousand, who was nursing her doll, when Yulian
Mastakovitch suddenly walked into the room. He had taken advantage of
the general commotion following a quarrel among the children to step out
of the drawing-room. I had noticed him a moment before talking very
cordially to the future heiress's papa, whose acquaintance he had just
made, of the superiority of one branch of the service over another. Now
he stood in hesitation and seemed to be reckoning something on his
fingers.

"Three hundred . . . three hundred," he was whispering. "Eleven . . . twelve
. . . thirteen," and so on. "Sixteen--five years! Supposing it is at four
per cent.