en he sat down a little way off.

The officers took his part. Captain Polyansky began assuring Varya
that Pushkin really was a psychologist, and to prove it quoted two
lines from Lermontov; Lieutenant Gernet said that if Pushkin had
not been a psychologist they would not have erected a monument to
him in Moscow.

"That's loutishness!" was heard from the other end of the table.
"I said as much to the governor: 'It's loutishness, your Excellency,'
I said."

"I won't argue any more," cried Nikitin. "It's unending. . . .
Enough! Ach, get away, you nasty dog!" he cried to Som, who laid
his head and paw on his knee.

"Rrr . . . nga-nga-nga!" came from under the table.

"Admit that you are wrong!" cried Varya. "Own up!"

But some young ladies came in, and the argument dropped of itself.
They all went into the drawing-room. Varya sat down at the piano
and began playing dances. They danced first a waltz, then a polka,
then a quadrille with a grand chain which Captain Polyansky led
through all the rooms, then a waltz again.

During the dancing the old men sat in the drawing-room, smoking and
looking at the young people. Among them was Shebaldin, the director
of the municipal bank, who was famed for his love of literature and
dramatic art. He had founded the local Musical and Dramatic Society,
and took part in the performances himself, confining himself, for
some reason, to playing comic footmen or to reading in a sing-song
voice "The Woman who was a Sinner." His nickname in the town was
"the Mummy," as he was tall, very lean and scraggy, and always had
a solemn air and a fixed, lustreless eye. He was so devoted to the
dramatic art that he even shaved his moustache and beard, and this
made him still more like a mummy.

After the grand chain, he shuffled up to Nikitin sideways, coughed,
and said:

"I had the pleasure of being present during the argument at tea. I
fully share your opinion. We are of one mind, and it would be a
great pleasure to me to talk to you. Have you read Lessing on the
dramatic art of Hamburg?"

"No, I haven't."

Shebaldin was horrified, and waved his hands as though he had burnt
his fingers, and saying nothing more, staggered back from Nikitin.
Shebaldin's appearance, his question, and his surprise, struck
Nikitin as funny, but he thought none the less:

"It really is awkward. I am a teacher of literature, and to this
day I've not read Lessing. I must read him."

Before supper the whole com