t his everyday coat, only in his blouse with the
skirts outside, belted with a thin cord; or, in winter, without his
overcoat, in the thinnest of small suits; or instead of the new, just
purchased uniform cap--in a tiny jockey cap, holding by a miracle on
the crown of his head.

Everybody loved him: comrades, servants, women, children. And all were
familiar with him. He enjoyed especial good-will from his bosom
cronies, the Tartars, who, apparently, deemed him a little innocent.
They would sometimes, in the summer, bring as a present the strong,
intoxicating KOUMYSS in big quartern bottles, while at Bairam they
would invite him to eat a suckling colt with them. No matter how
improbable it may seem, still, Soloviev at critical moments gave away
for safe-keeping certain books and brochures to the Tartars. He would
say at this with the most simple and significant air: "That which I am
giving you is a Great Book. It telleth, that Allah Akbar, and that
Mahomet is his prophet, that there is much evil and poverty on earth,
and that men must be merciful and just to each other."

He also had two other abilities: he read aloud very well; and played at
chess amazingly, like a master, like a downright genius, defeating
first-class players in jest. His attack was always impetuous and
rigorous; his defense wise and cautious, preferably in an oblique
direction; his concessions to his opponent full of refined, far-sighted
calculation and murderous craftiness. With this, he made moves as
though under the influence of some inner instinct, or inspiration; not
pondering for more than four or five seconds and resolutely despising
the respected traditions.

He was not willingly played with; his manner of play was held
barbarous, but still they played, sometimes for large sums of money;
which, invariably winning, Soloviev readily laid down upon the altar of
his comrades' needs. But he steadfastly declined from participation in
competitions, which could have created for him the position of a star
in the world of chess: "There is in my nature neither love for this
nonsense, nor respect," he would say. "I simply possess some sort of a
mechanical ability of the mind, some sort of a psychic deformity. Well,
now, just as there are lefties. And for that reason I've no
professional self-respect, nor pride at victory, nor spleen at losing."

Such was the generously built student Soloviev. And Nijeradze filled
the post of his closest comrade; which