wife had left him, taking with her all the silver, and he moved to
a third station of a still lower class, where no hot dishes were
served. Then to a fourth. Frequently changing his situation and
sinking lower and lower, he had at last come to Progonnaya, and
here he used to sell nothing but tea and cheap vodka, and for lunch
hard-boiled eggs and dry sausages, which smelt of tar, and which
he himself sarcastically said were only fit for the orchestra. He
was bald all over the top of his head, and had prominent blue eyes
and thick bushy whiskers, which he often combed out, looking into
the little looking-glass. Memories of the past haunted him continually;
he could never get used to sausage "only fit for the orchestra,"
to the rudeness of the station-master, and to the peasants who used
to haggle over the prices, and in his opinion it was as unseemly
to haggle over prices in a refreshment room as in a chemist's shop.
He was ashamed of his poverty and degradation, and that shame was
now the leading interest of his life.

"Spring is late this year," said Matvey, listening. "It's a good
job; I don't like spring. In spring it is very muddy, Sergey
Nikanoritch. In books they write: Spring, the birds sing, the sun
is setting, but what is there pleasant in that? A bird is a bird,
and nothing more. I am fond of good company, of listening to folks,
of talking of religion or singing something agreeable in chorus;
but as for nightingales and flowers--bless them, I say!"

He began again about the tile factory, about the choir, but Sergey
Nikanoritch could not get over his mortification, and kept shrugging
his shoulders and muttering. Matvey said good-bye and went home.

There was no frost, and the snow was already melting on the roofs,