time, being yet shy and reserved by nature, I ended by finding
that, in my present position, I could make up my mind to nothing
but vague dreams (and such dreams I had). However, I ceased to
join Sasha in playing the fool, while Pokrovski, for his part,
ceased to lose his temper with us so much. Unfortunately this was
not enough to satisfy my self-esteem.

At this point, I must say a few words about the strangest, the
most interesting, the most pitiable human being that I have ever
come across. I speak of him now--at this particular point in
these memoirs--for the reason that hitherto I had paid him no
attention whatever, and began to do so now only because
everything connected with Pokrovski had suddenly become of
absorbing interest in my eyes.

Sometimes there came to the house a ragged, poorly-dressed, grey-
headed, awkward, amorphous--in short, a very strange-looking--
little old man. At first glance it might have been thought that
he was perpetually ashamed of something--that he had on his
conscience something which always made him, as it were, bristle
up and then shrink into himself. Such curious starts and grimaces
did he indulge in that one was forced to conclude that he was
scarcely in his right mind. On arriving, he would halt for a
while by the window in the hall, as though afraid to enter;
until, should any one happen to pass in or out of the door--
whether Sasha or myself or one of the servants (to the latter he
always resorted the most readily, as being the most nearly akin
to his own class)--he would begin to gesticulate and to beckon to
that person, and to make various signs. Then, should the person
in question nod to him, or call him by name (the recognised token