AT the furthest end of the village of Mironositskoe some belated
sportsmen lodged for the night in the elder Prokofy's barn. There
were two of them, the veterinary surgeon Ivan Ivanovitch and the
schoolmaster Burkin. Ivan Ivanovitch had a rather strange
double-barrelled surname -- Tchimsha-Himalaisky -- which did not
suit him at all, and he was called simply Ivan Ivanovitch all
over the province. He lived at a stud-farm near the town, and had
come out shooting now to get a breath of fresh air. Burkin, the
high-school teacher, stayed every summer at Count P-----'s, and
had been thoroughly at home in this district for years.
They did not sleep. Ivan Ivanovitch, a tall, lean old fellow with
long moustaches, was sitting outside the door, smoking a pipe in
the moonlight. Burkin was lying within on the hay, and could not
be seen in the darkness.
They were telling each other all sorts of stories. Among other
things, they spoke of the fact that the elder's wife, Mavra, a
healthy and by no means stupid woman, had never been beyond her
native village, had never seen a town nor a railway in her life,
and had spent the last ten years sitting behind the stove, and
only at night going out into the street.
"What is there wonderful in that!" said Burkin. "There are plenty
of people in the world, solitary by temperament, who try to
retreat into their shell like a hermit crab or a snail. Perhaps
it is an instance of atavism, a return to the period when the
ancestor of man was not yet a social animal and lived alone in
his den, or perhaps it is only one of the diversities of human
character -- who knows? I am not a natural science man, and it is
not my business to settle such questions; I only mean to say that
people like Mavra are not uncommon. There is no need to look far;
two months ago a man called Byelikov, a colleague of mine, the
Greek master, died in our town. You have heard of him, no doubt.
He was remarkable for always wearing goloshes and a warm wadded
coat, and carrying an umbrella even in the very finest weather.
And his umbrella was in a case, and his watch was in a case made
of grey chamois leather, and when he took out his penknife to
sharpen his pencil, his penknife, too, was in a little case; and
his face seemed to be in a case too, because he always hid it in
his turned-up collar. He wore dark spectacles and flannel vests,
stuffed up his ears with cotton-wool, and when he got into a cab
always told the driver to put up the hood. In short, the man
displayed a constant and insurmountable impulse to wrap himself
in a covering, to make himself, so to speak, a case which would
isolate him and protect him from external influences. Reality
irritated him, frightened him, kept him in continual agitation,
and, perhaps to justify his timidity, his aversion for the
actual, he always praised the past and what had never existed;
and even the classical languages which he taught were in reality
for him goloshes and umbrellas in which he sheltered himself from
real life.
" 'Oh, how sonorous, how beautiful is the Greek language!' he
would say, with a sugary expression; and as though to prove his
words he would screw up his eyes and, raising his finger, would
pronounce 'Anthropos!'
"And Byelikov tried to hide his thoughts also in a case. The only
things that were clear to his mind were government circulars and
newspaper articles in which something was forbidden. When some
proclamation prohibited the boys from going out in the streets
after nine o'clock in the evening, or some article declared
carnal love unlawful, it was to his mind clear and definite; it
was forbidden, and that was enough. For him there was always a
doubtful element, something vague and not fully expressed, in any
sanction or permission. When a dramatic club or a reading-room or
a tea-shop was licensed in the town, he would shake his head and
say softly:
"It is all right, of course; it is all very nice, but I hope it
won't lead to anything!"
"Every sort of breach of order, deviation or departure from rule,
depressed him, though one would have thought it was no business
of his. If one of his colleagues was late for church or if
rumours reached him of some prank of the high-school boys, or one
of the mistresses was seen late in the evening in the company of
an officer, he was much disturbed, and said he hoped that nothing
would come of it. At the teachers' meetings he simply oppressed
us with his caution, his circumspection, and his characteristic
reflection on the ill-behaviour of the young people in both male
and female high-schools, the uproar in the classes.
"Oh, he hoped it would not reach the ears of the authorities; oh,
he hoped nothing would come of it; and he thought it would be a
very good thing if Petrov were expelled from the second class and
Yegorov from the fourth. And, do you know, by his sighs, his
despondency, his black spectacles on his pale little face, a
little face like a pole-cat's, you know, he crushed us all, and
we gave way, reduced Petrov's and Yegorov's marks for conduct,
kept them in, and in the end expelled them both. He had a strange
habit of visiting our lodgings. He would come to a teacher's,
would sit down, and remain silent, as though he were carefully
inspecting something. He would sit like this in silence for an
hour or two and then go away. This he called 'maintaining good
relations with his colleagues'; and it was obvious that coming to
see us and sitting there was tiresome to him, and that he came to
see us simply because he considered it his duty as our colleague.
We teachers were afraid of him. And even the headmaster was
afraid of him. Would you believe it, our teachers were all
intellectual, right-minded people, brought up on Turgenev and
Shtchedrin, yet this little chap, who always went about with
goloshes and an umbrella, had the whole high-school under his
thumb for fifteen long years! High-school, indeed -- he had the
whole town under his thumb! Our ladies did not get up private
theatricals on Saturdays for fear he should hear of it, and the
clergy dared not eat meat or play cards in his presence. Under
the influence of people like Byelikov we have got into the way of
being afraid of everything in our town for the last ten or
fifteen years. They are afraid to speak aloud, afraid to send
letters, afraid to make acquaintances, afraid to read books,
afraid to help the poor, to teach people to read and write. . .
."
Ivan Ivanovitch cleared his throat, meaning to say something, but
first lighted his pipe, g azed at the moon, and then said, with
pauses:
"Yes, intellectual, right minded people read Shtchedrin and
Turgenev, Buckle, and all the rest of them, yet they knocked
under and put up with it. . . that's just how it is."
"Byelikov lived in the same house as I did," Burkin went on, "on
the same storey, his door facing mine; we often saw each other,
and I knew how he lived when he was at home. And at home it was
the same story: dressing-gown, nightcap, blinds, bolts, a perfect
succession of prohibitions and restrictions of all sorts, and
--'Oh, I hope nothing will come of it!' Lenten fare was bad for
him, yet he could not eat meat, as people might perhaps say
Byelikov did not keep the fasts, and he ate freshwater fish with
butter -- not a Lenten dish, yet one could not say that it was
meat. He did not keep a female servant for fear people might
think evil of him, but had as cook an old man of sixty, called
Afanasy, half-witted and given to tippling, who had once been an
officer's servant and could cook after a fashion. This Afanasy
was usually standing at the door with his arms folded; with a
deep sigh, he would mutter always the same thing:
" 'There are plenty of _them_ about nowadays!'
"Byelikov had a little bedroom like a box; his bed had curtains.
When he went to bed he covered his head over; it was hot and
stuffy; the wind battered on the closed doors; there was a
droning noise in the stove and a sound of sighs from the kitchen
-- ominous sighs. . . . And he felt frightened under the
bed-clothes. He was afraid that something might happen, that
Afanasy might murder him, that thieves might break in, and so he
had troubled dreams all night, and in the morning, when we went
together to the high-school, he was depressed and pale, and it
was evident that the high-school full of people excited dread and
aversion in his whole being, and that to walk beside me was
irksome to a man of his solitary temperament.
" 'They make a great noise in our classes,' he used to say, as
though trying to find an explanation for his depression. 'It's
beyond anything.'
"And the Greek master, this man in a case -- would you believe
it? -- almost got married."
Ivan Ivanovitch glanced quickly into the barn, and said:
"You are joking!"
"Yes, strange as it seems, he almost got married. A new teacher
of history and geography, Milhail Savvitch Kovalenko, a Little
Russian, was appointed. He came, not alone, but with his sister
Varinka. He was a tall, dark young man with huge hands, and one
could see from his face that he had a bass voice, and, in fact,
he had a voice that seemed to come out of a barrel -- 'boom,
boom, boom!' And she was not so young, about thirty, but she,
too, was tall, well-made, with black eyebrows and red cheeks --
in fact, she was a regular sugar-plum, and so sprightly, so
noisy; she was always singing Little Russian songs and laughing.
For the least thing she would go off into a ringing laugh --
'Ha-ha-ha!' We made our first thorough acquaintance with the
Kovalenkos at the headmaster's name-day party. Among the glum and
intensely bored teachers who came even to the name-day party as a
duty we suddenly saw a new Aphrodite risen from the waves; she
walked with her arms akimbo, laughed, sang, danced. . . . She
sang with feeling 'The Winds do Blow,' then another song, and
another, and she fascinated us all -- all, even Byelikov. He sat
down by her and said with a honeyed smile:
" 'The Little Russian reminds one of the ancient Greek in its
softness and agreeable resonance.'
"That flattered her, and she began telling him with feeling and
earnestness that they had a farm in the Gadyatchsky district, and
that her mamma lived at the farm, and that they had such pears,
such melons, such _kabaks_! The Little Russians call pumpkins
_kabaks_ (i.e., pothouses), while their pothouses they call
_shinki_, and they make a beetroot soup with tomatoes and
aubergines in it, 'which was so nice -- awfully nice!'
"We listened and listened, and suddenly the same idea dawned upon
us all:
" 'It would be a good thing to make a match of it,' the
headmaster's wife said to me softly.
"We all for some reason recalled the fact that our friend
Byelikov was not married, and it now seemed to us strange that we
had hitherto failed to observe, and had in fact completely lost
sight of, a detail so important in his life. What was his
attitude to woman? How had he settled this vital question for
himself? This had not interested us in the least till then;
perhaps we had not even admitted the idea that a man who went out
in all weathers in goloshes and slept under curtains could be in
love.
" 'He is a good deal over forty and she is thirty,' the
headmaster's wife went on, developing her idea. 'I believe she
would marry him.'
"All sorts of things are done in the provinces through boredom,
all sorts of unnecessary and nonsensical things! And that is
because what is necessary is not done at all. What need was there
for instance, for us to make a match for this Byelikov, whom one
could not even imagine married? The headmaster's wife, the
inspector's wife, and all our high-school ladies, grew livelier
and even better-looking, as though they had suddenly found a new
object in life. The headmaster's wife would take a box at the
theatre, and we beheld sitting in her box Varinka, with such a
fan, beaming and happy, and beside her Byelikov, a little bent
figure, looking as though he had been extracted from his house by
pincers. I would give an evening party, and the ladies would
insist on my inviting Byelikov and Varinka. In short, the machine
was set in motion. It appeared that Varinka was not averse to
matrimony. She had not a very cheerful life with her brother;
they could do nothing but quarrel and scold one another from
morning till night. Here is a scene, for instance. Kovalenko
would be coming along the street, a tall, sturdy young ruffian,
in an embroidered shirt, his love-locks falling on his forehead
under his cap, in one hand a bundle of books, in the other a
thick knotted stick, followed by his sister, also with books in
her hand.
" 'But you haven't read it, Mihalik!' she would be arguing
loudly. 'I tell you, I swear you have not read it at all!'
" 'And I tell you I have read it,' cries Kovalenko, thumping his
stick on the pavement.
" 'Oh, my goodness, Mihalik! why are you so cross? We are arguing
about principles.'
" 'I tell you that I have read it!' Kovalenko would shout, more
loudly than ever.
"And at home, if there was an outsider present, there was sure to
be a skirmish. Such a life must have been wearisome, and of
course she must have longed for a home of her own. Besides, there
was her age to be considered; there was no time left to pick and
choose; it was a case of marrying anybody, even a Greek master.
And, indeed, most of our young ladies don't mind whom they marry
so long as they do get married. However that may be, Varinka
began to show an unmistakable partiality for Byelikov.
"And Byelikov? He used to visit Kovalenko just as he did us. He
would arrive, sit down, and remain silent. He would sit quiet,
and Varinka would sing to him 'The Winds do Blow,' or would look
pensively at him with her dark eyes, or would suddenly go off
into a peal -- 'Ha-ha-ha!'
"Suggestion plays a great part in love affairs, and still more in
getting married. Everybody -- both his colleagues and the ladies
-- began assuring Byelikov that he ought to get married, that
there was nothing left for him in life but to get married; we all
congratulated him, with solemn countenances delivered ourselves
of various platitudes, such as 'Marriage is a serious step.'
Besides, Varinka was good-looking and interesting; she was the
daughter of a civil councillor, and had a farm; and what was
more, she was the first woman who had been warm and friendly in
her manner to him. His head was turned, and he decided that he
really ought to get married."
"Well, at that point you ought to have taken away his goloshes
and umbrella," said Ivan Ivanovitch.
"Only fancy! that turned out to be impossible. He put Varinka's
portrait on his table, kept coming to see me and talking about
Varinka, and home life,
saying marriage was a serious step. He was frequently at
Kovalenko's, but he did not alter his manner of life in the
least; on the contrary, indeed, his determination to get married
seemed to have a depressing effect on him. He grew thinner and
paler, and seemed to retreat further and further into his case.
" 'I like Varvara Savvishna,' he used to say to me, with a faint
and wry smile, 'and I know that every one ought to get married,
but . . . you know all this has happened so suddenly. . . . One
must think a little.'
" 'What is there to think over?' I used to say to him. 'Get
married -- that is all.'
" 'No; marriage is a serious step. One must first weigh the
duties before one, the responsibilities . . . that nothing may go
wrong afterwards. It worries me so much that I don't sleep at
night. And I must confess I am afraid: her brother and she have a
strange way of thinking; they look at things strangely, you know,
and her disposition is very impetuous. One may get married, and
then, there is no knowing, one may find oneself in an unpleasant
position.'
"And he did not make an offer; he kept putting it off, to the
great vexation of the headmaster's wife and all our ladies; he
went on weighing his future duties and responsibilities, and
meanwhile he went for a walk with Varinka almost every day --
possibly he thought that this was necessary in his position --
and came to see me to talk about family life. And in all
probability in the end he would have proposed to her, and would
have made one of those unnecessary, stupid marriages such as are
made by thousands among us from being bored and having nothing to
do, if it had not been for a _kolossalische scandal_. I must
mention that Varinka's brother, Kovalenko, detested Byelikov from
the first day of their acquaintance, and could not endure him.
" 'I don't understand,' he used to say to us, shrugging his
shoulders --'I don't understand how you can put up with that
sneak, that nasty phiz. Ugh! how can you live here! The
atmosphere is stifling and unclean! Do you call yourselves
schoolmasters, teachers? You are paltry government clerks. You
keep, not a temple of science, but a department for red tape and
loyal behaviour, and it smells as sour as a police-station. No,
my friends; I will stay with you for a while, and then I will go
to my farm and there catch crabs and teach the Little Russians. I
shall go, and you can stay here with your Judas -- damn his
soul!'
"Or he would laugh till he cried, first in a loud bass, then in a
shrill, thin laugh, and ask me, waving his hands:
" 'What does he sit here for? What does he want? He sits and
stares.'
"He even gave Byelikov a nickname, 'The Spider.' And it will
readily be understood that we avoided talking to him of his
sister's being about to marry 'The Spider.'
"And on one occasion, when the headmaster's wife hinted to him
what a good thing it would be to secure his sister's future with
such a reliable, universally respected man as Byelikov, he
frowned and muttered:
" 'It's not my business; let her marry a reptile if she likes. I
don't like meddling in other people's affairs.'
"Now hear what happened next. Some mischievous person drew a
caricature of Byelikov walking along in his goloshes with his
trousers tucked up, under his umbrella, with Varinka on his arm;
below, the inscription 'Anthropos in love.' The expression was
caught to a marvel, you know. The artist must have worked for
more than one night, for the teachers of both the boys' and
girls' high-schools, the teachers of the seminary, the government
officials, all received a copy. Byelikov received one, too. The
caricature made a very painful impression on him.
"We went out together; it was the first of May, a Sunday, and all
of us, the boys and the teachers, had agreed to meet at the
high-school and then to go for a walk together to a wood beyond
the town. We set off, and he was green in the face and gloomier
than a storm-cloud.
'What wicked, ill-natured people there are!' he said, and his
lips quivered.
"I felt really sorry for him. We were walking along, and all of a
sudden -- would you believe it? -- Kovalenko came bowling along
on a bicycle, and after him, also on a bicycle, Varinka, flushed
and exhausted, but good-humoured and gay.
" 'We are going on ahead,' she called. 'What lovely weather!
Awfully lovely!'
"And they both disappeared from our sight. Byelikov turned white
instead of green, and seemed petrified. He stopped short and
stared at me. . . .
" 'What is the meaning of it? Tell me, please!' he asked. 'Can my
eyes have deceived me? Is it the proper thing for high-school
masters and ladies to ride bicycles?'
" 'What is there improper about it?' I said. 'Let them ride and
enjoy themselves.'
" 'But how can that be?' he cried, amazed at my calm. 'What are
you saying?'
"And he was so shocked that he was unwilling to go on, and
returned home.
"Next day he was continually twitching and nervously rubbing his
hands, and it was evident from his face that he was unwell. And
he left before his work was over, for the first time in his life.
And he ate no dinner. Towards evening he wrapped himself up
warmly, though it was quite warm weather, and sallied out to the
Kovalenkos'. Varinka was out; he found her brother, however.
" 'Pray sit down,' Kovalenko said coldly, with a frown. His face
looked sleepy; he had just had a nap after dinner, and was in a
very bad humour.
"Byelikov sat in silence for ten minutes, and then began:
" 'I have come to see you to relieve my mind. I am very, very
much troubled. Some scurrilous fellow has drawn an absurd
caricature of me and another person, in whom we are both deeply
interested. I regard it as a duty to assure you that I have had
no hand in it. . . . I have given no sort of ground for such
ridicule -- on the contrary, I have always behaved in every way
like a gentleman.'
"Kovalenko sat sulky and silent. Byelikov waited a little, and
went on slowly in a mournful voice:
" 'And I have something else to say to you. I have been in the
service for years, while you have only lately entered it, and I
consider it my duty as an older colleague to give you a warning.
You ride on a bicycle, and that pastime is utterly unsuitable for
an educator of youth.'
" 'Why so?' asked Kovalenko in his bass.
" 'Surely that needs no explanation, Mihail Savvitch -- surely
you can understand that? If the teacher rides a bicycle, what can
you expect the pupils to do? You will have them walking on their
heads next! And so long as there is no formal permission to do
so, it is out of the question. I was horrified yesterday! When I
saw your sister everything seemed dancing before my eyes. A lady
or a young girl on a bicycle -- it's awful!'
" 'What is it you want exactly?'
" 'All I want is to warn you, Mihail Savvitch. You are a young
man, you have a future before you, you must be very, very careful
in your behaviour, and you are so careless -- oh, so careless!
You go about in an embroidered shirt, are constantly seen in the
street carrying books, and now the bicycle, too. The headmaster
will learn that you and your sister ride the bicycle, and then it
will reach the higher authorities. . . . Will that be a good
thing?'
" 'It's no business of anybody else if my sister and I do
bicycle!' said Kovalenko, and he turned crimson. 'And damnation
take any one who meddles in my private affairs!'
"Byelikov turned pale and got up.
" 'If you speak to me in that tone I cannot continue,' he said.
'And I beg you never to express yourself like that about our
superiors in my presence; you ought to be respectful to the
authorities.'
" 'Why, have I said any harm of the authorities?' asked
Kovalenko, looking at him wrathfully. 'Please leave me alone. I
am an honest man, and do not care to talk to a gentleman like
you. I don't like sneaks!'
"Byelikov flew into a nervous flutter, and began hurriedly
putting on his coat, with an expression of horror on his face. It
was the first time in his life he had been spoken to so rudely.
" 'You can say what you please,' he said, as he went out from the
entry to the landing on the staircase. 'I ought only to warn you:
possibly some on e may have overheard us, and that our
conversation may not be misunderstood and harm come of it, I
shall be compelled to inform our headmaster of our conversation .
. . in its main features. I am bound to do so.'
" 'Inform him? You can go and make your report!'
"Kovalenko seized him from behind by the collar and gave him a
push, and Byelikov rolled downstairs, thudding with his goloshes.
The staircase was high and steep, but he rolled to the bottom
unhurt, got up, and touched his nose to see whether his
spectacles were all right. But just as he was falling down the
stairs Varinka came in, and with her two ladies; they stood below
staring, and to Byelikov this was more terrible than anything. I
believe he would rather have broken his neck or both legs than
have been an object of ridicule. 'Why, now the whole town would
hear of it; it would come to the headmaster's ears, would reach
the higher authorities -- oh, it might lead to something! There
would be another caricature, and it would all end in his being
asked to resign his post. . . .
"When he got up, Varinka recognized him, and, looking at his
ridiculous face, his crumpled overcoat, and his goloshes, not
understanding what had happened and supposing that he had slipped
down by accident, could not restrain herself, and laughed loud
enough to be heard by all the flats:
" 'Ha-ha-ha!'
"And this pealing, ringing 'Ha-ha-ha!' was the last straw that
put an end to everything: to the proposed match and to Byelikov's
earthly existence. He did not hear what Varinka said to him; he
saw nothing. On reaching home, the first thing he did was to
remove her portrait from the table; then he went to bed, and he
never got up again.
"Three days later Afanasy came to me and asked whether we should
not send for the doctor, as there was something wrong with his
master. I went in to Byelikov. He lay silent behind the curtain,
covered with a quilt; if one asked him a question, he said 'Yes'
or 'No' and not another sound. He lay there while Afanasy, gloomy
and scowling, hovered about him, sighing heavily, and smelling
like a pothouse.
"A month later Byelikov died. We all went to his funeral -- that
is, both the high-schools and the seminary. Now when he was lying
in his coffin his expression was mild, agreeable, even cheerful,
as though he were glad that he had at last been put into a case
which he would never leave again. Yes, he had attained his ideal!
And, as though in his honour, it was dull, rainy weather on the
day of his funeral, and we all wore goloshes and took our
umbrellas. Varinka, too, was at the funeral, and when the coffin
was lowered into the grave she burst into tears. I have noticed
that Little Russian women are always laughing or crying -- no
intermediate mood.
"One must confess that to bury people like Byelikov is a great
pleasure. As we were returning from the cemetery we wore discreet
Lenten faces; no one wanted to display this feeling of pleasure
-- a feeling like that we had experienced long, long ago as
children when our elders had gone out and we ran about the garden
for an hour or two, enjoying complete freedom. Ah, freedom,
freedom! The merest hint, the faintest hope of its possibility
gives wings to the soul, does it not?
"We returned from the cemetery in a good humour. But not more
than a week had passed before life went on as in the past, as
gloomy, oppressive, and senseless -- a life not forbidden by
government prohibition, but not fully permitted, either: it was
no better. And, indeed, though we had buried Byelikov, how many
such men in cases were left, how many more of them there will
be!"
"That's just how it is," said Ivan Ivanovitch and he lighted his
pipe.
"How many more of them there will be!" repeated Burkin.
The schoolmaster came out of the barn. He was a short, stout man,
completely bald, with a black beard down to his waist. The two
dogs came out with him.
"What a moon!" he said, looking upwards.
It was midnight. On the right could be seen the whole village, a
long street stretching far away for four miles. All was buried in
deep silent slumber; not a movement, not a sound; one could
hardly believe that nature could be so still. When on a moonlight
night you see a broad village street, with its cottages,
haystacks, and slumbering willows, a feeling of calm comes over
the soul; in this peace, wrapped away from care, toil, and sorrow
in the darkness of night, it is mild, melancholy, beautiful, and
it seems as though the stars look down upon it kindly and with
tenderness, and as though there were no evil on earth and all
were well. On the left the open country began from the end of the
village; it could be seen stretching far away to the horizon, and
there was no movement, no sound in that whole expanse bathed in
moonlight.
"Yes, that is just how it is," repeated Ivan Ivanovitch; "and
isn't our living in town, airless and crowded, our writing
useless papers, our playing _vint_ -- isn't that all a sort of
case for us? And our spending our whole lives among trivial,
fussy men and silly, idle women, our talking and our listening to
all sorts of nonsense -- isn't that a case for us, too? If you
like, I will tell you a very edifying story."
"No; it's time we were asleep," said Burkin. "Tell it tomorrow."
They went into the barn and lay down on the hay. And they were
both covered up and beginning to doze when they suddenly heard
light footsteps -- patter, patter. . . . Some one was walking not
far from the barn, walking a little and stopping, and a minute
later, patter, patter again. . . . The dogs began growling.
"That's Mavra," said Burkin.
The footsteps died away.
"You see and hear that they lie," said Ivan Ivanovitch, turning
over on the other side, "and they call you a fool for putting up
with their lying. You endure insult and humiliation, and dare not
openly say that you are on the side of the honest and the free,
and you lie and smile yourself; and all that for the sake of a
crust of bread, for the sake of a warm corner, for the sake of a
wretched little worthless rank in the service. No, one can't go
on living like this."
"Well, you are off on another tack now, Ivan Ivanovitch," said
the schoolmaster. "Let us go to sleep!
And ten minutes later Burkin was asleep. But Ivan Ivanovitch kept
sighing and turning over from side to side; then he got up, went
outside again, and, sitting in the doorway, lighted his pipe.
_________
-THE END-
Anton Chekhov's short story: The Man in Case
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