ck piece for a
night's lodging. I swear by God! For five years I was a village
schoolmaster and lost my post through the intrigues of the Zemstvo.
I was the victim of false witness. I have been out of a place for
a year now."

Skvortsov, a Petersburg lawyer, looked at the speaker's tattered
dark blue overcoat, at his muddy, drunken eyes, at the red patches
on his cheeks, and it seemed to him that he had seen the man before.

"And now I am offered a post in the Kaluga province," the beggar
continued, "but I have not the means for the journey there. Graciously
help me! I am ashamed to ask, but . . . I am compelled by circumstances."

Skvortsov looked at his goloshes, of which one was shallow like a
shoe, while the other came high up the leg like a boot, and suddenly
remembered.

"Listen, the day before yesterday I met you in Sadovoy Street," he
said, "and then you told me, not that you were a village schoolmaster,
but that you were a student who had been expelled. Do you remember?"

"N-o. No, that cannot be so!" the beggar muttered in confusion. "I
am a village schoolmaster, and if you wish it I can show you documents
to prove it."

"That's enough lies! You called yourself a student, and even told
me what you were expelled for. Do you remember?"

Skvortsov flushed, and with a look of disgust on his face turned
away from the ragged figure.

"It's contemptible, sir!" he cried angrily. "It's a swindle! I'll
hand you over to the police, damn you! You are poor and hungry, but
that does not give you the right to lie so shamelessly!"

The ragged figure took hold of the door-handle and, like a bird in
a snare, looked round the hall desperately.

"I . . . I am not lying," he muttered. "I can show documents."

"Who can believe you?" Skvortsov went on, still indignant. "To
exploit the sympathy of the public for village schoolmasters and
students--it's so low, so mean, so dirty! It's revolting!"

Skvortsov flew into a rage and gave the beggar a merciless scolding.
The ragged fellow's insolent lying aroused his disgust and aversion,
was an offence against what he, Skvortsov, loved and prized in
himself: kindliness, a feeling heart, sympathy for the unhappy. By
his lying, by his treacherous assault upon compassion, the individual
had, as it were, defiled the charity which he liked to give to the
poor with no misgivings in his heart. The beggar at first defended
himself, protested with oaths, then he sank into silence and