No More Learning

. .

All this, of course, was very absurd-looking from outside, but at that
moment an extremely naïve and unexpected circumstance saved me from
being laughed at by every one, and gave a special colour to the whole
adventure. The lovely persecutor who was the instigator of the whole
escapade, and who till then had been my irreconcileable foe, suddenly
rushed up to embrace and kiss me. She had hardly been able to believe
her eyes when she saw me dare to accept her challenge, and pick up the
gauntlet she had flung at me by glancing at Mme. M. She had almost died
of terror and self-reproach when I had flown off on Tancred; now, when
it was all over, and particularly when she caught the glance at Mme. M. ,
my confusion and my sudden flush of colour, when the romantic strain in
her frivolous little head had given a new secret, unspoken significance
to the moment--she was moved to such enthusiasm over my "knightliness,"
that touched, joyful and proud of me, she rushed up and pressed me to
her bosom. She lifted the most naïve, stern-looking little face, on
which there quivered and gleamed two little crystal tears, and gazing at
the crowd that thronged about her said in a grave, earnest voice, such
as they had never heard her use before, pointing to me: "Mais c'est très
sérieux, messieurs, ne riez pas! " She did not notice that all were
standing, as though fascinated, admiring her bright enthusiasm. Her
swift, unexpected action, her earnest little face, the simple-hearted
naïveté, the unexpected feeling betrayed by the tears that welled in her
invariably laughter-loving eyes, were such a surprise that every one
stood before her as though electrified by her expression, her rapid,
fiery words and gestures. It seemed as though no one could take his eyes
off her for fear of missing that rare moment in her enthusiastic face.
Even our host flushed crimson as a tulip, and people declared that they
heard him confess afterwards that "to his shame" he had been in love for
a whole minute with his charming guest. Well, of course, after this I
was a knight, a hero.

"De Lorge! Toggenburg! " was heard in the crowd.

There was a sound of applause.

"Hurrah for the rising generation! " added the host.

"But he is coming with us, he certainly must come with us," said the
beauty; "we will find him a place, we must find him a place. He shall
sit beside me, on my knee . . . but no, no! That's a mistake! . . . " she
corrected herself, laughing, unable to restrain her mirth at our first
encounter. But as she laughed she stroked my hand tenderly, doing all
she could to soften me, that I might not be offended.

"Of course, of course," several voices chimed in; "he must go, he has
won his place. "

The matter was settled in a trice. The same old maid who had brought
about my acquaintance with the blonde beauty was at once besieged with
entreaties from all the younger people to remain at home and let me have
her seat. She was forced to consent, to her intense vexation, with a
smile and a stealthy hiss of anger. Her protectress, who was her usual
refuge, my former foe and new friend, called to her as she galloped off
on her spirited horse, laughing like a child, that she envied her and
would have been glad to stay at home herself, for it was just going to
rain and we should all get soaked.

And she was right in predicting rain. A regular downpour came on within
an hour and the expedition was done for. We had to take shelter for some
hours in the huts of the village, and had to return home between nine
and ten in the evening in the damp mist that followed the rain. I began
to be a little feverish. At the minute when I was starting, Mme. M. came
up to me and expressed surprise that my neck was uncovered and that I
had nothing on over my jacket. I answered that I had not had time to get
my coat. She took out a pin and pinned up the turned down collar of my
shirt, took off her own neck a crimson gauze kerchief, and put it round
my neck that I might not get a sore throat. She did this so hurriedly
that I had not time even to thank her.

But when we got home I found her in the little drawing-room with the
blonde beauty and the pale-faced young man who had gained glory for
horsemanship that day by refusing to ride Tancred. I went up to thank
her and give back the scarf. But now, after all my adventures, I felt
somehow ashamed. I wanted to make haste and get upstairs, there at my
leisure to reflect and consider. I was brimming over with impressions.
As I gave back the kerchief I blushed up to my ears, as usual.

"I bet he would like to keep the kerchief," said the young man laughing.
"One can see that he is sorry to part with your scarf. "

"That's it, that's it! " the fair lady put in. "What a boy! Oh! " she
said, shaking her head with obvious vexation, but she stopped in time at
a grave glance from Mme. M. , who did not want to carry the jest too far.

I made haste to get away.

"Well, you are a boy," said the madcap, overtaking me in the next room
and affectionately taking me by both hands, "why, you should have simply
not returned the kerchief if you wanted so much to have it. You should
have said you put it down somewhere, and that would have been the end of
it. What a simpleton! Couldn't even do that! What a funny boy! "

And she tapped me on the chin with her finger, laughing at my having
flushed as red as a poppy.

"I am your friend now, you know; am I not? Our enmity is over, isn't it?
Yes or no? "

I laughed and pressed her fingers without a word.

"Oh, why are you so . . . why are you so pale and shivering? Have you
caught a chill? "

"Yes, I don't feel well. "

"Ah, poor fellow! That's the result of over-excitement. Do you know
what? You had better go to bed without sitting up for supper, and you
will be all right in the morning. Come along. "

She took me upstairs, and there was no end to the care she lavished on
me. Leaving me to undress she ran downstairs, got me some tea, and
brought it up herself when I was in bed. She brought me up a warm quilt
as well. I was much impressed and touched by all the care and attention
lavished on me; or perhaps I was affected by the whole day, the
expedition and feverishness. As I said good-night to her I hugged her
warmly, as though she were my dearest and nearest friend, and in my
exhausted state all the emotions of the day came back to me in a rush; I
almost shed tears as I nestled to her bosom. She noticed my overwrought
condition, and I believe my madcap herself was a little touched.

"You are a very good boy," she said, looking at me with gentle eyes,
"please don't be angry with me. You won't, will you? "

In fact, we became the warmest and truest of friends.

It was rather early when I woke up, but the sun was already flooding the
whole room with brilliant light. I jumped out of bed feeling perfectly
well and strong, as though I had had no fever the day before; indeed, I
felt now unutterably joyful. I recalled the previous day and felt that I
would have given any happiness if I could at that minute have embraced
my new friend, the fair-haired beauty, again, as I had the night before;
but it was very early and every one was still asleep. Hurriedly dressing
I went out into the garden and from there into the copse. I made my way
where the leaves were thickest, where the fragrance of the trees was
more resinous, and where the sun peeped in most gaily, rejoicing that it
could penetrate the dense darkness of the foliage. It was a lovely
morning.

Going on further and further, before I was aware of it I had reached the
further end of the copse and came out on the river Moskva. It flowed at
the bottom of the hill two hundred paces below. On the opposite bank of
the river they were mowing. I watched whole rows of sharp scythes gleam
all together in the sunlight at every swing of the mower and then vanish
again like little fiery snakes going into hiding; I watched the cut
grass flying on one side in dense rich swathes and being laid in long
straight lines. I don't know how long I spent in contemplation. At last
I was roused from my reverie by hearing a horse snorting and impatiently
pawing the ground twenty paces from me, in the track which ran from the
high road to the manor house. I don't know whether I heard this horse as
soon as the rider rode up and stopped there, or whether the sound had
long been in my ears without rousing me from my dreaming. Moved by
curiosity I went into the copse, and before I had gone many steps I
caught the sound of voices speaking rapidly, though in subdued tones. I
went up closer, carefully parting the branches of the bushes that edged
the path, and at once sprang back in amazement. I caught a glimpse of a
familiar white dress and a soft feminine voice resounded like music in
my heart. It was Mme. M. She was standing beside a man on horseback who,
stooping down from the saddle, was hurriedly talking to her, and to my
amazement I recognized him as N. , the young man who had gone away the
morning before and over whose departure M. M. had been so busy. But
people had said at the time that he was going far away to somewhere in
the South of Russia, and so I was very much surprised at seeing him with
us again so early, and alone with Mme. M.

She was moved and agitated as I had never seen her before, and tears
were glistening on her cheeks. The young man was holding her hand and
stooping down to kiss it. I had come upon them at the moment of parting.
They seemed to be in haste. At last he took out of his pocket a sealed
envelope, gave it to Mme. M. , put one arm round her, still not
dismounting, and gave her a long, fervent kiss. A minute later he lashed
his horse and flew past me like an arrow. Mme. M. looked after him for
some moments, then pensively and disconsolately turned homewards. But
after going a few steps along the track she seemed suddenly to recollect
herself, hurriedly parted the bushes and walked on through the copse.

I followed her, surprised and perplexed by all that I had seen. My heart
was beating violently, as though from terror. I was, as it were,
benumbed and befogged; my ideas were shattered and turned upside down;
but I remember I was, for some reason, very sad. I got glimpses from
time to time through the green foliage of her white dress before me: I
followed her mechanically, never losing sight of her, though I trembled
at the thought that she might notice me. At last she came out on the
little path that led to the house. After waiting half a minute I, too,
emerged from the bushes; but what was my amazement when I saw lying on
the red sand of the path a sealed packet, which I recognized, from the
first glance, as the one that had been given to Mme. M. ten minutes
before.

I picked it up. On both sides the paper was blank, there was no address
on it. The envelope was not large, but it was fat and heavy, as though
there were three or more sheets of notepaper in it.

What was the meaning of this envelope? No doubt it would explain the
whole mystery. Perhaps in it there was said all that N. had scarcely
hoped to express in their brief, hurried interview. He had not even
dismounted. . . . Whether he had been in haste or whether he had been
afraid of being false to himself at the hour of parting--God only
knows. . . .

I stopped, without coming out on the path, threw the envelope in the
most conspicuous place on it, and kept my eyes upon it, supposing that
Mme. M. would notice the loss and come back and look for it. But after
waiting four minutes I could stand it no longer, I picked up my find
again, put it in my pocket, and set off to overtake Mme. M. I came upon
her in the big avenue in the garden. She was walking straight towards
the house with a swift and hurried step, though she was lost in thought,
and her eyes were on the ground. I did not know what to do. Go up to
her, give it her? That would be as good as saying that I knew
everything, that I had seen it all. I should betray myself at the first
word. And how should I look, at her? How would she look at me. I kept
expecting that she would discover her loss and return on her tracks.
Then I could, unnoticed, have flung the envelope on the path and she
would have found it. But no! We were approaching the house; she had
already been noticed. . . .

As ill-luck would have it every one had got up very early that day,
because, after the unsuccessful expedition of the evening before, they
had arranged something new, of which I had heard nothing. All were
preparing to set off, and were having breakfast in the verandah. I
waited for ten minutes, that I might not be seen with Mme. M. , and
making a circuit of the garden approached the house from the other side
a long time after her. She was walking up and down the verandah with her
arms folded, looking pale and agitated, and was obviously trying her
utmost to suppress the agonizing, despairing misery which could be
plainly discerned in her eyes, her walk, her every movement. Sometimes
she went down the verandah steps and walked a few paces among the
flower-beds in the direction of the garden; her eyes were impatiently,
greedily, even incautiously, seeking something on the sand of the path
and on the floor of the verandah. There could be no doubt she had
discovered her loss and imagined she had dropped the letter somewhere
here, near the house--yes, that must be so, she was convinced of it.

Some one noticed that she was pale and agitated, and others made the
same remark. She was besieged with questions about her health and
condolences. She had to laugh, to jest, to appear lively. From time to
time she looked at her husband, who was standing at the end of the
terrace talking to two ladies, and the poor woman was overcome by the
same shudder, the same embarrassment, as on the day of his first
arrival. Thrusting my hand into my pocket and holding the letter tight
in it, I stood at a little distance from them all, praying to fate that
Mme. M. should notice me. I longed to cheer her up, to relieve her
anxiety if only by a glance; to say a word to her on the sly. But when
she did chance to look at me I dropped my eyes.

I saw her distress and I was not mistaken. To this day I don't know her
secret. I know nothing but what I saw and what I have just described.
The intrigue was not such, perhaps, as one might suppose at the first
glance. Perhaps that kiss was the kiss of farewell, perhaps it was the
last slight reward for the sacrifice made to her peace and honour. N.
was going away, he was leaving her, perhaps for ever. Even that letter I
was holding in my hand--who can tell what it contained! How can one
judge? and who can condemn? And yet there is no doubt that the sudden
discovery of her secret would have been terrible--would have been a
fatal blow for her.
I still remember her face at that minute, it could
not have shown more suffering. To feel, to know, to be convinced, to
expect, as though it were one's execution, that in a quarter of an hour,
in a minute perhaps, all might be discovered, the letter might be found
by some one, picked up; there was no address on it, it might be opened,
and then. . . . What then? What torture could be worse than what was
awaiting her? She moved about among those who would be her judges. In
another minute their smiling flattering faces would be menacing and
merciless. She would read mockery, malice and icy contempt on those
faces, and then her life would be plunged in everlasting darkness, with
no dawn to follow. . . . Yes, I did not understand it then as I understand
it now. I could only have vague suspicions and misgivings, and a
heart-ache at the thought of her danger, which I could not fully
understand. But whatever lay hidden in her secret, much was expiated, if
expiation were needed, by those moments of anguish of which I was
witness and which I shall never forget.

But then came a cheerful summons to set off; immediately every one was
bustling about gaily; laughter and lively chatter were heard on all
sides. Within two minutes the verandah was deserted. Mme. M. declined to
join the party, acknowledging at last that she was not well. But, thank
God, all the others set off, every one was in haste, and there was no
time to worry her with commiseration, inquiries, and advice. A few
remained at home. Her husband said a few words to her; she answered that
she would be all right directly, that he need not be uneasy, that there
was no occasion for her to lie down, that she would go into the garden,
alone . . . with me . . . here she glanced at me. Nothing could be more
fortunate! I flushed with pleasure, with delight; a minute later we were
on the way.

She walked along the same avenues and paths by which she had returned
from the copse, instinctively remembering the way she had come, gazing
before her with her eyes fixed on the ground, looking about intently
without answering me, possibly forgetting that I was walking beside her.

But when we had already reached the place where I had picked up the
letter, and the path ended, Mme. M. suddenly stopped, and in a voice
faint and weak with misery said that she felt worse, and that she would
go home. But when she reached the garden fence she stopped again and
thought a minute; a smile of despair came on her lips, and utterly worn
out and exhausted, resigned, and making up her mind to the worst, she
turned without a word and retraced her steps, even forgetting to tell me
of her intention.

My heart was torn with sympathy, and I did not know what to do.

We went, or rather I led her, to the place from which an hour before I
had heard the tramp of a horse and their conversation. Here, close to a
shady elm tree, was a seat hewn out of one huge stone, about which grew
ivy, wild jasmine, and dog-rose; the whole wood was dotted with little
bridges, arbours, grottoes, and similar surprises. Mme. M. sat down on
the bench and glanced unconsciously at the marvellous view that lay open
before us. A minute later she opened her book, and fixed her eyes upon
it without reading, without turning the pages, almost unconscious of
what she was doing. It was about half-past nine. The sun was already
high and was floating gloriously in the deep, dark blue sky, as though
melting away in its own light. The mowers were by now far away; they
were scarcely visible from our side of the river; endless ridges of mown
grass crept after them in unbroken succession, and from time to time the
faintly stirring breeze wafted their fragrance to us. The never ceasing
concert of those who "sow not, neither do they reap" and are free as the
air they cleave with their sportive wings was all about us. It seemed as
though at that moment every flower, every blade of grass was exhaling
the aroma of sacrifice, was saying to its Creator, "Father, I am blessed
and happy. "

I glanced at the poor woman, who alone was like one dead amidst all this
joyous life; two big tears hung motionless on her lashes, wrung from her
heart by bitter grief. It was in my power to relieve and console this
poor, fainting heart, only I did not know how to approach the subject,
how to take the first step. I was in agonies. A hundred times I was on
the point of going up to her, but every time my face glowed like fire.

Suddenly a bright idea dawned upon me. I had found a way of doing it; I
revived.

"Would you like me to pick you a nosegay? " I said, in such a joyful
voice that Mme M. immediately raised her head and looked at me intently.

"Yes, do," she said at last in a weak voice, with a faint smile, at once
dropping her eyes on the book again.

"Or soon they will be mowing the grass here and there will be no
flowers," I cried, eagerly setting to work.

I had soon picked my nosegay, a poor, simple one, I should have been
ashamed to take it indoors; but how light my heart was as I picked the
flowers and tied them up! The dog-rose and the wild jasmine I picked
closer to the seat, I knew that not far off there was a field of rye,
not yet ripe. I ran there for cornflowers; I mixed them with tall ears
of rye, picking out the finest and most golden. Close by I came upon a
perfect nest of forget-me-nots, and my nosegay was almost complete.
Farther away in the meadow there were dark-blue campanulas and wild
pinks, and I ran down to the very edge of the river to get yellow
water-lilies. At last, making my way back, and going for an instant into
the wood to get some bright green fan-shaped leaves of the maple to put
round the nosegay, I happened to come across a whole family of pansies,
close to which, luckily for me, the fragrant scent of violets betrayed
the little flower hiding in the thick lush grass and still glistening
with drops of dew. The nosegay was complete. I bound it round with fine
long grass which twisted into a rope, and I carefully lay the letter in
the centre, hiding it with the flowers, but in such a way that it could
be very easily noticed if the slightest attention were bestowed upon my
nosegay.

I carried it to Mme. M.

On the way it seemed to me that the letter was lying too much in view: I
hid it a little more. As I got nearer I thrust it still further in the
flowers; and finally, when I was on the spot, I suddenly poked it so
deeply into the centre of the nosegay that it could not be noticed at
all from outside. My cheeks were positively flaming. I wanted to hide my
face in my hands and run away at once, but she glanced at my flowers as
though she had completely forgotten that I had gathered them.
Mechanically, almost without looking, she held out her hand and took my
present; but at once laid it on the seat as though I had handed it to
her for that purpose and dropped her eyes to her book again, seeming
lost in thought. I was ready to cry at this mischance. "If only my
nosegay were close to her," I thought; "if only she had not forgotten
it! " I lay down on the grass not far off, put my right arm under my
head, and closed my eyes as though I were overcome by drowsiness. But I
waited, keeping my eyes fixed on her.

Ten minutes passed, it seemed to me that she was getting paler and paler
. . . fortunately a blessed chance came to my aid.

This was a big, golden bee, brought by a kindly breeze, luckily for me.
It first buzzed over my head, and then flew up to Mme. M. She waved it
off once or twice, but the bee grew more and more persistent. At last
Mme. M. snatched up my nosegay and waved it before my face. At that
instant the letter dropped out from among the flowers and fell straight
upon the open book. I started. For some time Mme. M. , mute with
amazement, stared first at the letter and then at the flowers which she
was holding in her hands, and she seemed unable to believe her eyes. All
at once she flushed, started, and glanced at me. But I caught her
movement and I shut my eyes tight, pretending to be asleep. Nothing
would have induced me to look her straight in the face at that moment.
My heart was throbbing and leaping like a bird in the grasp of some
village boy. I don't remember how long I lay with my eyes shut, two or
three minutes. At last I ventured to open them. Mme. M. was greedily
reading the letter, and from her glowing cheeks, her sparkling, tearful
eyes, her bright face, every feature of which was quivering with joyful
emotion, I guessed that there was happiness in the letter and all her
misery was dispersed like smoke. An agonizing, sweet feeling gnawed at
my heart, it was hard for me to go on pretending. . . .

I shall never forget that minute!

Suddenly, a long way off, we heard voices--

"Mme. M. ! Natalie! Natalie! "

Mme. M. did not answer, but she got up quickly from the seat, came up to
me and bent over me. I felt that she was looking straight into my face.
My eyelashes quivered, but I controlled myself and did not open my eyes.
I tried to breathe more evenly and quietly, but my heart smothered me
with its violent throbbing. Her burning breath scorched my cheeks; she
bent close down to my face as though trying to make sure. At last a kiss
and tears fell on my hand, the one which was lying on my breast.

"Natalie! Natalie! where are you," we heard again, this time quite
close.

"Coming," said Mme. M. , in her mellow, silvery voice, which was so
choked and quivering with tears and so subdued that no one but I could
hear that, "Coming! "

But at that instant my heart at last betrayed me and seemed to send all
my blood rushing to my face. At that instant a swift, burning kiss
scalded my lips. I uttered a faint cry. I opened my eyes, but at once
the same gauze kerchief fell upon them, as though she meant to screen me
from the sun. An instant later she was gone. I heard nothing but the
sound of rapidly retreating steps. I was alone. . . .

I pulled off her kerchief and kissed it, beside myself with rapture; for
some moments I was almost frantic. . . . Hardly able to breathe, leaning on
my elbow on the grass, I stared unconsciously before me at the
surrounding slopes, streaked with cornfields, at the river that flowed
twisting and winding far away, as far as the eye could see, between
fresh hills and villages that gleamed like dots all over the sunlit
distance--at the dark-blue, hardly visible forests, which seemed as
though smoking at the edge of the burning sky, and a sweet stillness
inspired by the triumphant peacefulness of the picture gradually brought
calm to my troubled heart. I felt more at ease and breathed more freely,
but my whole soul was full of a dumb, sweet yearning, as though a veil
had been drawn from my eyes as though at a foretaste of something. My
frightened heart, faintly quivering with expectation, was groping
timidly and joyfully towards some conjecture . . . and all at once my
bosom heaved, began aching as though something had pierced it, and
tears, sweet tears, gushed from my eyes. I hid my face in my hands, and
quivering like a blade of grass, gave myself up to the first
consciousness and revelation of my heart, the first vague glimpse of my
nature. My childhood was over from that moment.

* * * * *

When two hours later I returned home I did not find Mme. M. Through some
sudden chance she had gone back to Moscow with her husband. I never saw
her again.




MR. PROHARTCHIN

A STORY


In the darkest and humblest corner of Ustinya Fyodorovna's flat lived
Semyon Ivanovitch Prohartchin, a well-meaning elderly man, who did not
drink. Since Mr. Prohartchin was of a very humble grade in the service,
and received a salary strictly proportionate to his official capacity,
Ustinya Fyodorovna could not get more than five roubles a month from him
for his lodging. Some people said that she had her own reasons for
accepting him as a lodger; but, be that as it may, as though in despite
of all his detractors, Mr. Prohartchin actually became her favourite, in
an honourable and virtuous sense, of course. It must be observed that
Ustinya Fyodorovna, a very respectable woman, who had a special
partiality for meat and coffee, and found it difficult to keep the
fasts, let rooms to several other boarders who paid twice as much as
Semyon Ivanovitch, yet not being quiet lodgers, but on the contrary all
of them "spiteful scoffers" at her feminine ways and her forlorn
helplessness, stood very low in her good opinion, so that if it had not
been for the rent they paid, she would not have cared to let them stay,
nor indeed to see them in her flat at all. Semyon Ivanovitch had become
her favourite from the day when a retired, or, perhaps more correctly
speaking, discharged clerk, with a weakness for strong drink, was
carried to his last resting-place in Volkovo. Though this gentleman had
only one eye, having had the other knocked out owing, in his own words,
to his valiant behaviour; and only one leg, the other having been broken
in the same way owing to his valour; yet he had succeeded in winning all
the kindly feeling of which Ustinya Fyodorovna was capable, and took the
fullest advantage of it, and would probably have gone on for years
living as her devoted satellite and toady if he had not finally drunk
himself to death in the most pitiable way. All this had happened at
Peski, where Ustinya Fyodorovna only had three lodgers, of whom, when
she moved into a new flat and set up on a larger scale, letting to about
a dozen new boarders, Mr. Prohartchin was the only one who remained.

Whether Mr. Prohartchin had certain incorrigible defects, or whether his
companions were, every one of them, to blame, there seemed to be
misunderstandings on both sides from the first. We must observe here
that all Ustinya Fyodorovna's new lodgers without exception got on
together like brothers; some of them were in the same office; each one
of them by turns lost all his money to the others at faro, preference
and _bixe_; they all liked in a merry hour to enjoy what they called the
fizzing moments of life in a crowd together; they were fond, too, at
times of discussing lofty subjects, and though in the end things rarely
passed off without a dispute, yet as all prejudices were banished from
the whole party the general harmony was not in the least disturbed
thereby. The most remarkable among the lodgers were Mark Ivanovitch, an
intelligent and well-read man; then Oplevaniev; then Prepolovenko, also
a nice and modest person; then there was a certain Zinovy Prokofyevitch,
whose object in life was to get into aristocratic society; then there
was Okeanov, the copying clerk, who had in his time almost wrested the
distinction of prime favourite from Semyon Ivanovitch; then another
copying clerk called Sudbin; the plebeian Kantarev; there were others
too. But to all these people Semyon Ivanovitch was, as it were, not one
of themselves. No one wished him harm, of course, for all had from the
very first done Prohartchin justice, and had decided in Mark
Ivanovitch's words that he, Prohartchin, was a good and harmless fellow,
though by no means a man of the world, trustworthy, and not a flatterer,
who had, of course, his failings; but that if he were sometimes unhappy
it was due to nothing else but lack of imagination. What is more, Mr.
Prohartchin, though deprived in this way of imagination, could never
have made a particularly favourable impression from his figure or
manners (upon which scoffers are fond of fastening), yet his figure did
not put people against him. Mark Ivanovitch, who was an intelligent
person, formally undertook Semyon Ivanovitch's defence, and declared in
rather happy and flowery language that Prohartchin was an elderly and
respectable man, who had long, long ago passed the age of romance. And
so, if Semyon Ivanovitch did not know how to get on with people, it must
have been entirely his own fault.

The first thing they noticed was the unmistakable parsimony and
niggardliness of Semyon Ivanovitch. That was at once observed and noted,
for Semyon Ivanovitch would never lend any one his teapot, even for a
moment; and that was the more unjust as he himself hardly ever drank
tea, but when he wanted anything drank, as a rule, rather a pleasant
decoction of wild flowers and certain medicinal herbs, of which he
always had a considerable store. His meals, too, were quite different
from the other lodgers'. He never, for instance, permitted himself to
partake of the whole dinner, provided daily by Ustinya Fyodorovna for
the other boarders. The dinner cost half a rouble; Semyon Ivanovitch
paid only twenty-five kopecks in copper, and never exceeded it, and so
took either a plate of soup with pie, or a plate of beef; most
frequently he ate neither soup nor beef, but he partook in moderation of
white bread with onion, curd, salted cucumber, or something similar,
which was a great deal cheaper, and he would only go back to his half
rouble dinner when he could stand it no longer. . . .

Here the biographer confesses that nothing would have induced him to
allude to such realistic and low details, positively shocking and
offensive to some lovers of the heroic style, if it were not that these
details exhibit one peculiarity, one characteristic, in the hero of this
story; for Mr. Prohartchin was by no means so poor as to be unable to
have regular and sufficient meals, though he sometimes made out that he
was. But he acted as he did regardless of obloquy and people's
prejudices, simply to satisfy his strange whims, and from frugality and
excessive carefulness: all this, however, will be much clearer later on.
But we will beware of boring the reader with the description of all
Semyon Ivanovitch's whims, and will omit, for instance, the curious and
very amusing description of his attire; and, in fact, if it were not for
Ustinya Fyodorovna's own reference to it we should hardly have alluded
even to the fact that Semyon Ivanovitch never could make up his mind to
send his linen to the wash, or if he ever did so it was so rarely that
in the intervals one might have completely forgotten the existence of
linen on Semyon Ivanovitch. From the landlady's evidence it appeared
that "Semyon Ivanovitch, bless his soul, poor lamb, for twenty years had
been tucked away in his corner, without caring what folks thought, for
all the days of his life on earth he was a stranger to socks,
handkerchiefs, and all such things," and what is more, Ustinya
Fyodorovna had seen with her own eyes, thanks to the decrepitude of the
screen, that the poor dear man sometimes had had nothing to cover his
bare skin.

Such were the rumours in circulation after Semyon Ivanovitch's death.
But in his lifetime (and this was one of the most frequent occasions of
dissension) he could not endure it if any one, even somebody on friendly
terms with him, poked his inquisitive nose uninvited into his corner,
even through an aperture in the decrepit screen. He was a taciturn man
difficult to deal with and prone to ill health. He did not like people
to give him advice, he did not care for people who put themselves
forward either, and if any one jeered at him or gave him advice unasked,
he would fall foul of him at once, put him to shame, and settle his
business. "You are a puppy, you are a featherhead, you are not one to
give advice, so there--you mind your own business, sir. You'd better
count the stitches in your own socks, sir, so there! "

Semyon Ivanovitch was a plain man, and never used the formal mode of
address to any one. He could not bear it either when some one who knew
his little ways would begin from pure sport pestering him with
questions, such as what he had in his little trunk. . . . Semyon Ivanovitch
had one little trunk. It stood under his bed, and was guarded like the
apple of his eye; and though every one knew that there was nothing in it
except old rags, two or three pairs of damaged boots and all sorts of
rubbish, yet Mr.