“Byelikov lived in the same house as I did，” Burkin went on， “on the same storey， his door facing mine； we often saw each other， and I knew how he lived when he was at home. And at home it was the same story： dressing-gown， nightcap， blinds， bolts， a perfect succession of prohibitions and restrictions of all sorts， and— ‘Oh， I hope nothing will come of it！’ Lenten fare was bad for him， yet he could not eat meat， as people might perhaps say Byelikov did not keep the fasts， and he ate freshwater fish with butter—not a Lenten dish， yet one could not say that it was meat. He did not keep a female servant for fear people might think evil of him， but had as cook an old man of sixty， called Afanasy， half-witted and given to tippling， who had once been an officer’s servant and could cook after a fashion. This Afanasy was usually standing at the door with his arms folded； with a deep sigh， he would mutter always the same thing： ‘there are plenty of them about nowadays！’
“Byelikov had a little bedroom like a box； his bed had curtains. When he went to bed he covered his head over； it was hot and stuffy； the wind battered on the closed doors； there was a droning noise in the stove and a sound of sighs from the kitchen—ominous sighs… And he felt frightened under the bed-clothes. He was afraid that something might happen， that Afanasy might murder him， that thieves might break in， and so he had troubled dreams all night， and in the morning， when we went together to the high-school， he was depressed and pale， and it was evident that the high-school full of people excited dread and aversion in his whole being， and that to walk beside me was irksome to a man of his solitary temperament.
“ ‘They make a great noise in our classes，’ he used to say， as though trying to find an explanation for his depression. ‘It’s beyond anything.’
“And the Greek master， this man in a case—would you believe it？— almost got married.”
Ivan Ivanovitch glanced quickly into the barn， and said： “You are joking！”
“Yes， strange as it seems， he almost got married. A new teacher of history and geography， Milhail Savvitch Kovalenko， aLittle Russian， was appointed. He came， not alone， but with his sister Varinka. He was a tall， dark young man with huge hands， and one could see from his face that he had a bass voice， and， in fact， he had a voice that seemed to come out of a barrel—‘boom， boom， boom！’ And she was not so young， about thirty， but she， too， was tall， well-made， with black eyebrows and red cheeks—in fact， she was a regular sugar-plum， and so sprightly， so noisy； she was always singing Little Russian songs and laughing. For the least thing she would go off into a ringing laugh— ‘Ha-ha-ha！’ We made our first thorough acquaintance with the Kovalenkos at the headmaster’s name-day party. Among the glum and intensely bored teachers who came even to the name-day party as a duty we suddenly saw a new Aphrodite risen from the waves； she walked with her arms akimbo， laughed， sang， danced… She sang with feeling ‘The Winds do Blow，’ then another song， and another， and she fascinated us all—all， even Byelikov. He sat down by her and said with a honeyed smile： ‘The Little Russian reminds one of the ancient Greek in its softness and agreeable resonance.’
“That flattered her， and she began telling him with feeling and earnestness that they had a farm in the Gadyatchsky district， and that her mamma lived at the farm， and that they had such pears， such melons， such—kabaks—！ The Little Russians call pumpkins—kabaks— （i.e.， pothouse）， while their pothouse they call—shinki—， and they make a beetroot soup with tomatoes and aubergines in it， ‘which was so nice — awfully nice！’
“We listened and listened， and suddenly the same idea dawned upon us all： ‘It would be a good thing to make a match of it，’ the headmaster’s wife said to me softly.
“We all for some reason recalled the fact that our friend Byelikov was not married， and it now seemed to us strange that we had hitherto failed to observe， and had in fact completely lost sight of， a detail so important in his life. What was his attitude to woman？ How had he settled this vital question for himself ？ This had not interested us in the least till then； perhaps we had not even admitted the idea that a man who went out in all weathers in galoshes and slept under curtains could be in love.
“ ‘He is a good deal over forty and she is thirty，’ the headmaster’s wife went on， developing her idea. ‘I believe she would marry him.’
“All sorts of things are done in the provinces through boredom， all sorts of unnecessary and nonsensical things！ And that is because what is necessary is not done at all. What need was there for instance， for us to make a match for this Byelikov， whom one could not even imagine married？ The headmaster’s wife， the inspector’s wife， and all our high- school ladies， grew livelier and even better-looking， as though they had suddenly found a new object in life. The headmaster’s wife would take a box at the theatre， and we beheld sitting in her box Varinka， with such a fan， beaming and happy， and beside her Byelikov， a little bent figure， looking as though he had been extracted from his house by pincers. I would give an evening party， and the ladies would insist on my inviting Byelikov and Varinka. In short， the machine was set in motion. It appeared that Varinka was not averse to matrimony. She had not a very cheerful life with her brother； they could do nothing but quarrel and scold one another from morning till night. Here is a scene， for instance. Kovalenko would be coming along the street， a tall， sturdy young ruffian， in an embroidered shirt， his love-locks falling on his forehead under his cap， in one hand a bundle of books， in the other a thick knotted stick， followed by his sister， also with books in her hand. “ ‘But you haven’t read it， Mihalik！’ she would be arguing loudly. ‘I tell you， I swear you have not read it at all！’
“ ‘And I tell you I have read it，’ cries Kovalenko， thumping his stick on the pavement.
