mpecunious. Lavretsky had
already been sorry to see in him, on the preceding evening, all the
characteristics of a poverty of long standing. His shoes were trodden
down, his coat wanted a button behind, his hands were strangers to
gloves, one or two bits of feather were sticking in his hair. When he
arrived, he did not think of asking for a wash; and at supper he ate
like a shark, tearing the meat to pieces with his fingers, and noisily
gnawing the bones with his firm, discolored teeth.
It turned out, also, that he had not thriven in the civil service, and
that he had pinned all his hopes on the brandy-farmer, who had given
him employment simply that he might have an "educated man" in his
counting-house. In spite of all this, however, Mikhalevich had not
lost courage, but kept on his way leading the life of a cynic, an
idealist, and a poet; fervently caring for, and troubling himself
about, the destinies of humanity and his special vocation in life--and
giving very little heed to the question whether or no he would die of
starvation.
Mikhalevich had never married; but he had fallen in love countless
times, and he always wrote poetry about all his loves: with especial
fervor did he sing about a mysterious, raven-haired "lady." It was
rumored, indeed, that this "lady" was nothing more than a Jewess, and
one who had numerous friends among cavalry officers; but, after all,
if one thinks the matter over, it is not one of much importance.
With Lemm, Mikhalevich did not get on well. His extremely loud way of
talking, his rough manners, frightened the German, to whom they
were entirely novel. One unfortunate man immediately and from afar
recognizes another, but in old age he is seldom willing to associate
with him. Nor is that to be wondered at. He has nothing to share with
him--not even hopes.
Before he left, Mikhalevich had another long talk with Lavretsky, to
whom he predicted utter ruin if he did not rouse himself, and whom
he entreated to occupy himself seriously with the question of the
position of his serfs. He set himself up as a pattern for imitation,
saying that he had been purified in the furnace of misfortune; and
then he several times styled himself a happy man, comparing himself to
a bird of the air, a lily of the valley.
"A dusky lily, at all events," remarked Lavretsky.
"Ah, brother, don't come the aristocrat," answered Mikhalevich
good-humoredly; "but rather thank God that in your veins also there
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