anything not eatable, for instance, of politics or science, he would
be completely at a loss, or would expound a philosophy so stupid
and ill-natured that there was nothing else to do but wave one's
hand in despair and go away. Even when Startsev tried to talk to
liberal citizens, saying, for instance, that humanity, thank God,
was progressing, and that one day it would be possible to dispense
with passports and capital punishment, the liberal citizen would
look at him askance and ask him mistrustfully: "Then any one could
murder any one he chose in the open street?" And when, at tea or
supper, Startsev observed in company that one should work, and that
one ought not to live without working, every one took this as a
reproach, and began to get angry and argue aggressively. With all
that, the inhabitants did nothing, absolutely nothing, and took no
interest in anything, and it was quite impossible to think of
anything to say. And Startsev avoided conversation, and confined
himself to eating and playing _vint_; and when there was a family
festivity in some household and he was invited to a meal, then he
sat and ate in silence, looking at his plate.

And everything that was said at the time was uninteresting, unjust,
and stupid; he felt irritated and disturbed, but held his tongue,
and, because he sat glumly silent and looked at his plate, he was
nicknamed in the town "the haughty Pole," though he never had been
a Pole.

All such entertainments as theatres and concerts he declined, but
he played _vint_ every evening for three hours with enjoyment. He
had another diversion to which he took imperceptibly, little by
little: in the evening he would take out of his pockets the notes
he had gained by his practice, and sometimes there were stuffed in
his pockets notes--yellow and green, and smelling of scent and
vinegar and incense and fish oil--up to the value of seventy
roubles; and when they amounted to some hundreds he took them to
the Mutual Credit Bank and deposited the money there to his account.

He was only twice at the Turkins' in the course of the four years
after Ekaterina Ivanovna had gone away, on each occasion at the
invitation of Vera Iosifovna, who was still undergoing treatment
for migraine. Every summer Ekaterina Ivanovna came to stay with her
parents, but he did not once see her; it somehow never happened.

But now four years had passed. One still, warm morning a letter was
brought to the hospital. Vera