common
in Russia; and, when he was left alone, carefully took off his coat, and
set to work upon sorting his papers.

VIII

On the evening of the same day, Anna Vassilyevna was sitting in her
drawing-room and was on the verge of weeping. There were also in the
room her husband and a certain Uvar Ivanovitch Stahov, a distant cousin
of Nikolai Artemyevitch, a retired cornet of sixty years old, a man
corpulent to the point of immobility, with sleepy yellowish eyes, and
colourless thick lips in a puffy yellow face. Ever since he had retired,
he had lived in Moscow on the interest of a small capital left him by
a wife who came of a shopkeeper's family. He did nothing, and it is
doubtful whether he thought of anything; if he did think, he kept his
thoughts to himself. Once only in his life he had been thrown into a
state of excitement and shown signs of animation, and that was when he
read in the newspapers of a new instrument at the Universal Exhibition
in London, the 'contro-bombardon,' and became very anxious to order this
instrument for himself, and even made inquiries as to where to send
the money and through what office. Uvar Ivanovitch wore a loose
snuff-coloured coat and a white neckcloth, used to eat often and much,
and in moments of great perplexity, that is to say when it happened to
him to express some opinion, he would flourish the fingers of his right
hand meditatively in the air, with a convulsive spasm from the first
finger to the little finger, and back from the little finger to the
first finger, while he articulated with effort, 'to be sure... there
ought to... in some sort of a way.'

Uvar Ivanovitch was sitting in an easy chair by the window, breathing
heavily; Nikolai Artemyevitch was pacing with long strides up and
down the room, his hands thrust into his pockets; his face expressed
dissatisfaction.

He stood still at last and shook his head. 'Yes;' he began, 'in our
day young men were brought up differently. Young men did not permit
themselves to be lacking in respect to their elders. And nowadays, I can
only look on and wonder. Possibly, I am all wrong, and they are quite
right; possibly. But still I have my own views of things; I was not born
a fool. What do you think about it, Uvar Ivanovitch?'

Uvar Ivanovitch could only look at him and work his fingers.

'Elena Nikolaevna, for instance,' pursued Nikolai Artemyevitch, 'Elena
Nikolaevna I don't pretend to understand. I am not elevated