of low stature, with a swarthy face
covered with bristling grey hair, and fiery black eyes--a certain
African Semenitch Pigasov.

This Pigasov was a strange person. Full of acerbity against everything
and every one--especially against women--he was railing from morning to
night, sometimes very aptly, sometimes rather stupidly, but always with
gusto. His ill-humour almost approached puerility; his laugh, the sound
of his voice, his whole being seemed steeped in venom. Darya Mihailovna
gave Pigasov a cordial reception; he amused her with his sallies. They
were certainly absurd enough. He took delight in perpetual exaggeration.
For example, if he were told of any disaster, that a village had been
struck by lightning, or that a mill had been carried away by floods, or
that a peasant had cut his hand with an axe, he invariably asked with
concentrated bitterness, 'And what's her name?' meaning, what is the
name of the woman responsible for this calamity, for according to his
convictions, a woman was the cause of every misfortune, if you only
looked deep enough into the matter. He once threw himself on his knees
before a lady he hardly knew at all, who had been effusive in her
hospitality to him and began tearfully, but with wrath written on his
face, to entreat her to have compassion on him, saying that he had done
her no harm and never would come to see her for the future. Once a horse
had bolted with one of Darya Mihailovna's maids, thrown her into a ditch
and almost killed her. From that time Pigasov never spoke of that horse
except as the 'good, good horse,' and he even came to regard the hill
and the ditch as specially picturesque spots. Pigasov had failed in
life and had adopted this whimsical craze. He came of poor parents.
His father had filled various petty posts, and could scarcely read and
write, and did not trouble himself about his son's education; he fed
and clothed him and nothing more. His mother spoiled him, but she died
early. Pigasov educated himself, sent himself to the district school and
then to the gymnasium, taught himself French, German, and even Latin,
and, leaving the gymnasiums with an excellent certificate, went to
Dorpat, where he maintained a perpetual struggle with poverty, but
succeeded in completing his three years' course. Pigasov's abilities did
not rise above the level of mediocrity; patience and perseverance were
his strong points, but the most powerful sentiment in him was ambition,
the