en, 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