etsky had noticed with pain
the evening before all the tokens and habits of years of poverty; his
boots were shabby, a button was off on the back of his coat, on his
arrival, he had not even thought of asking to wash, and at supper he ate
like a shark, tearing his meat in his fingers, and crunching the bones
with his strong black teeth. It appeared, too, that he had made
nothing out of his employment, that he now rested all his hopes on the
contractor who was taking him solely in order to have an "educated man"
in his office.

For all that Mihalevitch was not discouraged, but as idealist or cynic,
lived on a crust of bread, sincerely rejoicing or grieving over the
destinies of humanity, and his own vocation, and troubling himself very
little as to how to escape dying of hunger. Mihalevitch was not married:
but had been in love times beyond number, and had written poems to all
the objects of his adoration; he sang with especial fervour the praises
of a mysterious black-tressed "noble Polish lady." There were rumours,
it is true, that this "noble Polish lady" was a simple Jewess, very
well known to a good many cavalry officers--but, after all, what do you
think--does it really make any difference?

With Lemm, Mihalevitch did not get on; his noisy talk and brusque
manners scared the German, who was unused to such behaviour. One poor
devil detects another by instinct at once, but in old age he rarely gets
on with him, and that is hardly astonishing, he has nothing to share
with him, not even hopes.

Before setting off, Mihalevitch had another long discussion with
Lavretsky, foretold his ruin, if he did not see the error of his ways,
exhorted him to devote himself seriously to the welfare of his peasants,
and pointed to himself as an example, saying that he had been purified
in the furnace of suffering; and in the same breath called himself
several times a happy man, comparing himself with the fowl of the air
and the lily of the field.

"A black lily, any way," observed Lavretsky.

"Ah, brother, don't be a snob!" retorted Mihalevitch, good-naturedly,
"but thank God rather there is a pure plebeian blood in your veins too.
But I see that you want some pure, heavenly creature to draw you out of
your apathy."

"Thanks, brother," remarked Lavretsky. "I have had quite enough of those
heavenly creatures."

"Silence, ceeneec!" cried Mihalevitch.

"Cynic," Lavretsky corrected him.

"Ceeneec, just so," repeated Mihalevitch