though now triumphing in his education over those who had so often
humiliated him. He evidently enjoyed intercourse with that world in
which cards are printed on red paper, and with that world of which he
had once formed a part. Nearly always, in answer to my inquiries
about his life, the man began, not only willingly, but eagerly, to
relate the story of the misfortunes which he had undergone,--which he
had learned by rote like a prayer,--and particularly of his former
position, in which he ought still to be by right of his education.

A great many such people were scattered over all the corners of the
Rzhanoff house. But one lodging was densely occupied by them alone--
both men and women. After we had already entered, Ivan Fedotitch
said to us: "Now, here are some of the nobility." The lodging was
perfectly crammed; nearly all of the people, forty in number, were at
home. More demoralized countenances, unhappy, aged, and swollen,
young, pallid, and distracted, were not to be seen in the whole
building. I conversed with several of them. The story was nearly
identical in all cases, only in various stages of development. Every
one of them had been rich, or his father, his brother or his uncle
was still wealthy, or his father or he himself had had a very fine
position. Then misfortune had overtaken him, the blame for which
rested either on envious people, or on his own kind-heartedness, or
some special chance, and so he had lost every thing, and had been
forced to condescend to these surroundings to which he was not
accustomed, and which were hateful to him--among lice, rags, among
drunkards and corrupt persons, and to nourish himself on bread and
liver, and to extend his hand in beggary. All the thoughts, desires,
memories of these people were directed exclusively to the past. The
present appeared to them something unreal, repulsive, and not worthy
of attention. Not one of them had any present. They had only