and
gave her something. If she were given a copper, she would take it, and at
once drop it in the alms-jug of the church or prison. If she were given a
roll or bun in the market, she would hand it to the first child she met.
Sometimes she would stop one of the richest ladies in the town and give it
to her, and the lady would be pleased to take it. She herself never tasted
anything but black bread and water. If she went into an expensive shop,
where there were costly goods or money lying about, no one kept watch on
her, for they knew that if she saw thousands of roubles overlooked by
them, she would not have touched a farthing. She scarcely ever went to
church. She slept either in the church porch or climbed over a hurdle
(there are many hurdles instead of fences to this day in our town) into a
kitchen garden. She used at least once a week to turn up "at home," that
is at the house of her father's former employers, and in the winter went
there every night, and slept either in the passage or the cowhouse. People
were amazed that she could stand such a life, but she was accustomed to
it, and, although she was so tiny, she was of a robust constitution. Some
of the townspeople declared that she did all this only from pride, but
that is hardly credible. She could hardly speak, and only from time to
time uttered an inarticulate grunt. How could she have been proud?

It happened one clear, warm, moonlight night in September (many years ago)
five or six drunken revelers were returning from the club at a very late
hour, according to our provincial notions. They passed through the
"back-way," which led between the back gardens of the houses, with hurdles
on either side. This way leads out on to the bridge over the long,
stinking pool which we were accustomed to call a river. Among the nettles
and burdocks under the hurdle our revelers saw Lizaveta asleep. They
stopped to look at her, laughing, and began jesting with unbridled
licentiousness. It occurred to one young gentleman to make the whimsical
inquiry whether any one could possibly look upon such an animal as a
woman, and so forth.... They all pronounced with lofty repugnance that it
was impossible. But Fyodor Pavlovitch, who was among them, sprang forward
and declared that it was by no means impossible, and that, indeed, there
was a certain piquancy about it, and so on.... It is true that at that
time he was overdoing his part as a buffoon. He liked to put himself
forward and