ther than Gavril
Syeverov, or more simply Gavryushka, who had been for a short time
in my service as a footman and had been dismissed by me for
drunkenness. He had been in Dmitri Petrovitch's service, too, and
by him had been dismissed for the same vice. He was an inveterate
drunkard, and indeed his whole life was as drunk and disorderly as
himself. His father had been a priest and his mother of noble rank,
so by birth he belonged to the privileged class; but however carefully
I scrutinized his exhausted, respectful, and always perspiring face,
his red beard now turning grey, his pitifully torn reefer jacket
and his red shirt, I could not discover in him the faintest trace
of anything we associate with privilege. He spoke of himself as a
man of education, and used to say that he had been in a clerical
school, but had not finished his studies there, as he had been
expelled for smoking; then he had sung in the bishop's choir and
lived for two years in a monastery, from which he was also expelled,
but this time not for smoking but for "his weakness." He had walked
all over two provinces, had presented petitions to the Consistory,
and to various government offices, and had been four times on his
trial. At last, being stranded in our district, he had served as a
footman, as a forester, as a kennelman, as a sexton, had married a
cook who was a widow and rather a loose character, and had so
hopelessly sunk into a menial position, and had grown so used to
filth and dirt, that he even spoke of his privileged origin with a
certain scepticism, as of some myth. At the time I am describing,
he was hanging about without a job, calling himself a carrier and
a huntsman, and his wife had disappeared and made no sign.

From the tavern we went to the church and sat in the porch, waiting
for the coachman. Forty Martyrs stood a little way off and put his
hand before his mouth in order to cough in it respectfully if need
be. By now it was dark; there was a strong smell of evening dampness,
and the moon was on the point of rising. There were only two clouds
in the clear starry sky exactly over our heads: one big one and one
smaller; alone in the sky they were racing after one another like
mother and child, in the direction where the sunset was glowing.

"What a glorious day!" said Dmitri Petrovitch.

"In the extreme . . ." Forty Martyrs assented, and he coughed
respectfully into his hand. "How was it, Dmitri Petrovitch, you
thought to vis