spontaneously in the whole race,
without words or agreements as a moral obligation consisting in mutual
support given by all members of the race to one another, at all times
and places, and under all circumstances. Andrey Antonovitch had
the honour of being educated in one of those more exalted Russian
educational institutions which are filled with the youth from families
well provided with wealth or connections. Almost immediately on
finishing their studies the pupils were appointed to rather important
posts in one of the government departments. Andrey Antonovitch had one
uncle a colonel of engineers, and another a baker. But he managed to get
into this aristocratic school, and met many of his fellow-countrymen in
a similar position. He was a good-humoured companion, was rather stupid
at his studies, but always popular. And when many of his companions in
the upper forms--chiefly Russians--had already learnt to discuss the
loftiest modern questions, and looked as though they were only
waiting to leave school to settle the affairs of the universe, Andrey
Antonovitch was still absorbed in the most innocent schoolboy interests.
He amused them all, it is true, by his pranks, which were of a very
simple character, at the most a little coarse, but he made it his object
to be funny. At one time he would blow his nose in a wonderful way
when the professor addressed a question to him, thereby making his
schoolfellows and the professor laugh. Another time, in the dormitory,
he would act some indecent living picture, to the general applause,
or he would play the overture to "Fra Diavolo" with his nose rather
skilfully. He was distinguished, too, by intentional untidiness,
thinking this, for some reason, witty. In his very last year at school
he began writing Russian poetry.

Of his native language he had only an ungrammatical knowledge, like many
of his race in Russia. This turn for versifying drew him to a gloomy
and depressed schoolfellow, the son of a poor Russian general, who was
considered in the school to be a great future light in literature. The
latter patronised him. But it happened that three years after leaving
school this melancholy schoolfellow, who had flung up his official
career for the sake of Russian literature, and was consequently going
about in torn boots, with his teeth chattering with cold, wearing a
light summer overcoat in the late autumn, met, one day on the Anitchin
bridge, his former protege, "Lembka,"