No More Learning

" 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. --five times twelve is sixty; yes, to that sixty . . . well, in
five years we may assume it will be four hundred. Yes! . . . But he won't
stick to four per cent. , the rascal. He can get eight or ten. Well, five
hundred, let us say, five hundred at least . . . that's certain; well, say
a little more for frills. H'm! . . . "

His hesitation was at an end, he blew his nose and was on the point of
going out of the room when he suddenly glanced at the little girl and
stopped short. He did not see me behind the pots of greenery. It seemed
to me that he was greatly excited. Either his calculations had affected
his imagination or something else, for he rubbed his hands and could
hardly stand still. This excitement reached its utmost limit when he
stopped and bent another resolute glance at the future heiress. He was
about to move forward, but first looked round, then moving on tiptoe, as
though he felt guilty, he advanced towards the children. He approached
with a little smile, bent down and kissed her on the head.
The child,
not expecting this attack, uttered a cry of alarm.

"What are you doing here, sweet child? " he asked in a whisper, looking
round and patting the girl's cheek.

"We are playing. "

"Ah! With him? " Yulian Mastakovitch looked askance at the boy. "You had
better go into the drawing-room, my dear," he said to him.

The boy looked at him open-eyed and did not utter a word. Yulian
Mastakovitch looked round him again, and again bent down to the little
girl.

"And what is this you've got--a dolly, dear child? " he asked.

"Yes, a dolly," answered the child, frowning, and a little shy.

"A dolly . . . and do you know, dear child, what your dolly is made of? "

"I don't know . . . " the child answered in a whisper, hanging her head.

"It's made of rags, darling. You had better go into the drawing-room to
your playmates, boy," said Yulian Mastakovitch, looking sternly at the
boy. The boy and girl frowned and clutched at each other. They did not
want to be separated.

"And do you know why they gave you that doll? " asked Yulian
Mastakovitch, dropping his voice to a softer and softer tone.

"I don't know. "

"Because you have been a sweet and well-behaved child all the week. "

At this point Yulian Mastakovitch, more excited than ever, speaking in
most dulcet tones, asked at last, in a hardly audible voice choked with
emotion and impatience--

"And will you love me, dear little girl, when I come and see your papa
and mamma? "

Saying this, Yulian Mastakovitch tried once more to kiss "the dear
little girl," but the red-haired boy, seeing that the little girl was on
the point of tears, clutched her hand and began whimpering from sympathy
for her. Yulian Mastakovitch was angry in earnest.

"Go away, go away from here, go away! " he said to the boy. "Go into the
drawing-room! Go in there to your playmates! "

"No, he needn't, he needn't! You go away," said the little girl. "Leave
him alone, leave him alone," she said, almost crying.

Some one made a sound at the door. Yulian Mastakovitch instantly raised
his majestic person and took alarm. But the red-haired boy was even more
alarmed than Yulian Mastakovitch; he abandoned the little girl and,
slinking along by the wall, stole out of the parlour into the
dining-room. To avoid arousing suspicion, Yulian Mastakovitch, too, went
into the dining-room. He was as red as a lobster, and, glancing into the
looking-glass, seemed to be ashamed at himself. He was perhaps vexed
with himself for his impetuosity and hastiness. Possibly, he was at
first so much impressed by his calculations, so inspired and fascinated
by them, that in spite of his seriousness and dignity he made up his
mind to behave like a boy, and directly approach the object of his
attentions, even though she could not be really the object of his
attentions for another five years at least. I followed the estimable
gentleman into the dining-room and there beheld a strange spectacle.
Yulian Mastakovitch, flushed with vexation and anger, was frightening
the red-haired boy, who, retreating from him, did not know where to run
in his terror.

"Go away; what are you doing here? Go away, you scamp; are you after the
fruit here, eh? Get along, you naughty boy! Get along, you sniveller, to
your playmates! "

The panic-stricken boy in his desperation tried creeping under the
table. Then his persecutor, in a fury, took out his large batiste
handkerchief and began flicking it under the table at the child, who
kept perfectly quiet. It must be observed that Yulian Mastakovitch was a
little inclined to be fat. He was a sleek, red-faced, solidly built man,
paunchy, with thick legs; what is called a fine figure of a man, round
as a nut. He was perspiring, breathless, and fearfully flushed. At last
he was almost rigid, so great was his indignation and perhaps--who
knows? --his jealousy. I burst into loud laughter. Yulian Mastakovitch
turned round and, in spite of all his consequence, was overcome with
confusion. At that moment from the opposite door our host came in. The
boy crept out from under the table and wiped his elbows and his knees.
Yulian Mastakovitch hastened to put to his nose the handkerchief which
he was holding in his hand by one end.

Our host looked at the three of us in some perplexity; but as a man who
knew something of life, and looked at it from a serious point of view,
he at once availed himself of the chance of catching his visitor by
himself.

"Here, this is the boy," he said, pointing to the red-haired boy, "for
whom I had the honour to solicit your influence. "

"Ah! " said Yulian Mastakovitch, who had hardly quite recovered himself.

"The son of my children's governess," said our host, in a tone of a
petitioner, "a poor woman, the widow of an honest civil servant; and
therefore . . . and therefore, Yulian Mastakovitch, if it were possible
. . . "

"Oh, no, no! " Yulian Mastakovitch made haste to answer; "no, excuse me,
Filip Alexyevitch, it's quite impossible. I've made inquiries; there's
no vacancy, and if there were, there are twenty applicants who have far
more claim than he. . . . I am very sorry, very sorry. . . . "

"What a pity," said our host. "He is a quiet, well-behaved boy. "

"A great rascal, as I notice," answered Yulian Mastakovitch, with a
nervous twist of his lip. "Get along, boy; why are you standing there?
Go to your playmates," he said, addressing the child.

At that point he could not contain himself, and glanced at me out of one
eye. I, too, could not contain myself, and laughed straight in his face.
Yulian Mastakovitch turned away at once, and in a voice calculated to
reach my ear, asked who was that strange young man? They whispered
together and walked out of the room. I saw Yulian Mastakovitch
afterwards shaking his head incredulously as our host talked to him.

After laughing to my heart's content I returned to the drawing-room.
There the great man, surrounded by fathers and mothers of families,
including the host and hostess, was saying something very warmly to a
lady to whom he had just been introduced. The lady was holding by the
hand the little girl with whom Yulian Mastakovitch had had the scene in
the parlour a little while before. Now he was launching into praises and
raptures over the beauty, the talents, the grace and the charming
manners of the charming child. He was unmistakably making up to the
mamma. The mother listened to him almost with tears of delight. The
father's lips were smiling. Our host was delighted at the general
satisfaction. All the guests, in fact, were sympathetically gratified;
even the children's games were checked that they might not hinder the
conversation: the whole atmosphere was saturated with reverence. I heard
afterwards the mamma of the interesting child, deeply touched, beg
Yulian Mastakovitch, in carefully chosen phrases, to do her the special
honour of bestowing upon them the precious gift of his acquaintance, and
heard with what unaffected delight Yulian Mastakovitch accepted the
invitation, and how afterwards the guests, dispersing in different
directions, moving away with the greatest propriety, poured out to one
another the most touchingly flattering comments upon the contractor, his
wife, his little girl, and, above all, upon Yulian Mastakovitch.

"Is that gentleman married? " I asked, almost aloud, of one of my
acquaintances, who was standing nearest to Yulian Mastakovitch. Yulian
Mastakovitch flung a searching and vindictive glance at me.

"No! " answered my acquaintance, chagrined to the bottom of his heart by
the awkwardness of which I had intentionally been guilty. . . .

* * * * *

I passed lately by a certain church; I was struck by the crowd of people
in carriages. I heard people talking of the wedding. It was a cloudy
day, it was beginning to sleet. I made my way through the crowd at the
door and saw the bridegroom. He was a sleek, well-fed, round, paunchy
man, very gorgeously dressed up. He was running fussily about, giving
orders. At last the news passed through the crowd that the bride was
coming. I squeezed my way through the crowd and saw a marvellous beauty,
who could scarcely have reached her first season. But the beauty was
pale and melancholy. She looked preoccupied; I even fancied that her
eyes were red with recent weeping. The classic severity of every feature
of her face gave a certain dignity and seriousness to her beauty. But
through that sternness and dignity, through that melancholy, could be
seen the look of childish innocence; something indescribably naïve,
fluid, youthful, which seemed mutely begging for mercy.

People were saying that she was only just sixteen. Glancing attentively
at the bridegroom, I suddenly recognized him as Yulian Mastakovitch,
whom I had not seen for five years. I looked at her. My God! I began to
squeeze my way as quickly as I could out of the church. I heard people
saying in the crowd that the bride was an heiress, that she had a dowry
of five hundred thousand . . . and a trousseau worth ever so much.

"It was a good stroke of business, though! " I thought as I made my way
into the street.




POLZUNKOV

A STORY


I began to scrutinize the man closely. Even in his exterior there was
something so peculiar that it compelled one, however far away one's
thoughts might be, to fix one's eyes upon him and go off into the most
irrepressible roar of laughter. That is what happened to me. I must
observe that the little man's eyes were so mobile, or perhaps he was so
sensitive to the magnetism of every eye fixed upon him, that he almost
by instinct guessed that he was being observed, turned at once to the
observer and anxiously analysed his expression. His continual mobility,
his turning and twisting, made him look strikingly like a dancing doll.
It was strange! He seemed afraid of jeers, in spite of the fact that he
was almost getting his living by being a buffoon for all the world, and
exposed himself to every buffet in a moral sense and even in a physical
one, judging from the company he was in. Voluntary buffoons are not even
to be pitied. But I noticed at once that this strange creature, this
ridiculous man, was by no means a buffoon by profession. There was still
something gentlemanly in him. His very uneasiness, his continual
apprehensiveness about himself, were actually a testimony in his favour.
It seemed to me that his desire to be obliging was due more to kindness
of heart than to mercenary considerations. He readily allowed them to
laugh their loudest at him and in the most unseemly way, to his face,
but at the same time--and I am ready to take my oath on it--his heart
ached and was sore at the thought that his listeners were so caddishly
brutal as to be capable of laughing, not at anything said or done, but
at him, at his whole being, at his heart, at his head, at his
appearance, at his whole body, flesh and blood. I am convinced that he
felt at that moment all the foolishness of his position; but the protest
died away in his heart at once, though it invariably sprang up again in
the most heroic way. I am convinced that all this was due to nothing
else but a kind heart, and not to fear of the inconvenience of being
kicked out and being unable to borrow money from some one. This
gentleman was for ever borrowing money, that is, he asked for alms in
that form, when after playing the fool and entertaining them at his
expense he felt in a certain sense entitled to borrow money from them.
But, good heavens! what a business the borrowing was! And with what a
countenance he asked for the loan! I could not have imagined that on
such a small space as the wrinkled, angular face of that little man room
could be found, at one and the same time, for so many different
grimaces, for such strange, variously characteristic shades of feeling,
such absolutely killing expressions. Everything was there--shame and an
assumption of insolence, and vexation at the sudden flushing of his
face, and anger and fear of failure, and entreaty to be forgiven for
having dared to pester, and a sense of his own dignity, and a still
greater sense of his own abjectness--all this passed over his face like
lightning. For six whole years he had struggled along in God's world in
this way, and so far had been unable to take up a fitting attitude at
the interesting moment of borrowing money! I need not say that he never
could grow callous and completely abject. His heart was too sensitive,
too passionate! I will say more, indeed: in my opinion, he was one of
the most honest and honourable men in the world, but with a little
weakness: of being ready to do anything abject at any one's bidding,
good-naturedly and disinterestedly, simply to oblige a fellow-creature.
In short, he was what is called "a rag" in the fullest sense of the
word. The most absurd thing was, that he was dressed like any one else,
neither worse nor better, tidily, even with a certain elaborateness, and
actually had pretentions to respectability and personal dignity. This
external equality and internal inequality, his uneasiness about himself
and at the same time his continual self-depreciation--all this was
strikingly incongruous and provocative of laughter and pity. If he had
been convinced in his heart (and in spite of his experience it did
happen to him at moments to believe this) that his audience were the
most good-natured people in the world, who were simply laughing at
something amusing, and not at the sacrifice of his personal dignity, he
would most readily have taken off his coat, put it on wrong side
outwards, and have walked about the streets in that attire for the
diversion of others and his own gratification. But equality he could
never anyhow attain. Another trait: the queer fellow was proud, and
even, by fits and starts, when it was not too risky, generous. It was
worth seeing and hearing how he could sometimes, not sparing himself,
consequently with pluck, almost with heroism, dispose of one of his
patrons who had infuriated him to madness. But that was at moments. . . .
In short, he was a martyr in the fullest sense of the word, but the most
useless and consequently the most comic martyr.

There was a general discussion going on among the guests. All at once I
saw our queer friend jump upon his chair, and call out at the top of his
voice, anxious for the exclusive attention of the company.

"Listen," the master of the house whispered to me. "He sometimes tells
the most curious stories. . . . Does he interest you? "

I nodded and squeezed myself into the group. The sight of a well-dressed
gentleman jumping upon his chair and shouting at the top of his voice
did, in fact, draw the attention of all. Many who did not know the queer
fellow looked at one another in perplexity, the others roared with
laughter.

"I knew Fedosey Nikolaitch. I ought to know Fedosey Nikolaitch better
than any one! " cried the queer fellow from his elevation. "Gentlemen,
allow me to tell you something. I can tell you a good story about
Fedosey Nikolaitch! I know a story--exquisite! "

"Tell it, Osip Mihalitch, tell it. "

"Tell it. "

"Listen. "

"Listen, listen. "

"I begin; but, gentlemen, this is a peculiar story. . . . "

"Very good, very good. "

"It's a comic story. "

"Very good, excellent, splendid. Get on!