ief he probably has, for he was no mere boy to take his
University course in instalments."

After a little further conversation, and agreeing to meet again the next
night at Zuchin's, since his abode was the most central point for
us all, we began to disperse. As, one by one, we left the room, my
conscience started pricking me because every one seemed to be going home
on foot, whereas I had my drozhki. Accordingly, with some hesitation
I offered Operoff a lift. Zuchin came to the door with us, and, after
borrowing a rouble of Operoff, went off to make a night of it with some
friends. As we drove along, Operoff told me a good deal about Zuchin's
character and mode of life, and on reaching home it was long before I
could get to sleep for thinking of the new acquaintances I had made. For
many an hour, as I lay awake, I kept wavering between the respect which
their knowledge, simplicity, and sense of honour, as well as the poetry
of their youth and courage, excited in my regard, and the distaste which
I felt for their outward man. In spite of my desire to do so, it was at
that time literally impossible for me to associate with them, since
our ideas were too wholly at variance. For me, life's meaning and charm
contained an infinitude of shades of which they had not an inkling,
and vice versa. The greatest obstacles of all, however, to our better
acquaintance I felt to be the twenty roubles' worth of cloth in my
tunic, my drozhki, and my white linen shirt; and they appeared to
me most important obstacles, since they made me feel as though I had
unwittingly insulted these comrades by displaying such tokens of my
wealth. I felt guilty in their eyes, and as though, whether I accepted
or rejected their acquittal and took a line of my own, I could never
enter into equal and unaffected relations with them. Yet to such an
extent did the stirring poetry of the courage which I could detect in
Zuchin (in particular) overshadow the coarse, vicious side of his nature
that the latter made no unpleasant impression upon me.

For a couple of weeks I visited Zuchin's almost every night for purposes
of work. Yet I did very little there, since, as I have said, I had lost
ground at the start, and, not having sufficient grit in me to catch up
my companions by solitary study, was forced merely to PRETEND that I was
listening to and taking in all they were reading. I have an idea, too,
that they divined my pretence, since I often noticed that they