was evident from
the arrangement of the beds that in one two slept lengthwise, and
in the other three slept across the bed. In the lodger's room, that
came next, it really was clean. A neat-looking bed with a red woollen
quilt, a pillow in a white pillow-case, even a slipper for the
watch, a table covered with a hempen cloth and on it, an inkstand
of milky-looking glass, pens, paper, photographs in frames--
everything as it ought to be; and another table for rough work, on
which lay tidily arranged a watchmaker's tools and watches taken
to pieces. On the walls hung hammers, pliers, awls, chisels, nippers,
and so on, and there were three hanging clocks which were ticking;
one was a big clock with thick weights, such as one sees in
eating-houses.

As she sat down to write the letter, Anna Akimovna saw facing her
on the table the photographs of her father and of herself. That
surprised her.

"Who lives here with you?" she asked.

"Our lodger, madam, Pimenov. He works in your factory."

"Oh, I thought he must be a watchmaker."

"He repairs watches privately, in his leisure hours. He is an
amateur."

After a brief silence during which nothing could be heard but the
ticking of the clocks and the scratching of the pen on the paper,
Tchalikov heaved a sigh and said ironically, with indignation:

"It's a true saying: gentle birth and a grade in the service won't
put a coat on your back. A cockade in your cap and a noble title,
but nothing to eat. To my thinking, if any one of humble class helps
the poor he is much more of a gentleman than any Tchalikov who has
sunk into poverty and vice."

To flatter Anna Akimovna, he uttered a few more disparaging phrases
about his gentle birth, and it was evident that he was humbling
himself because he considered himself superior to her. Meanwhile
she had finished her letter and had sealed it up. The letter would
be thrown away and the money would not be spent on medicine--that
she knew, but she put twenty-five roubles on the table all the same,
and after a moment's thought, added two more red notes. She saw the
wasted, yellow hand of Madame Tchalikov, like the claw of a hen,
dart out and clutch the money tight.

"You have graciously given this for medicine," said Tchalikov in a
quivering voice, "but hold out a helping hand to me also . . . and
the children!" he added with a sob. "My unhappy children! I am not
afraid for myself; it is for my daughters I fear! It's the hydra
of vi