“Yes, yes, Blagovo was telling me,” he turned briskly to me without giving me his hand.  “But listen, what can I give you?  What sort of posts have I got?  You are a queer set of people!” he went on aloud in a tone as though he were giving me a lecture.  “A score of you keep coming to me every day; you imagine I am the head of a department!  I am constructing a railway-line, my friends; I have employment for heavy labour:  I need mechanics, smiths, navvies, carpenters, well-sinkers, and none of you can do anything but sit and write!  You are all clerks.”

And he seemed to me to have the same air of happiness as his rugs and easy chairs.  He was stout and healthy, ruddy-cheeked and broad-chested, in a print cotton shirt and full trousers like a toy china sledge-driver.  He had a curly, round beard—­and not a single grey hair—­a hooked nose, and clear, dark, guileless eyes.

“What can you do?” he went on.  “There is nothing you can do!  I am an engineer.  I am a man of an assured position, but before they gave me a railway-line I was for years in harness; I have been a practical mechanic.  For two years I worked in Belgium as an oiler.  You can judge for yourself, my dear fellow, what kind of work can I offer you?”

“Of course that is so . . .”  I muttered in extreme confusion, unable to face his clear, guileless eyes.

“Can you work the telegraph, any way?” he asked, after a moment’s thought.

“Yes, I have been a telegraph clerk.”

“Hm!  Well, we will see then.  Meanwhile, go to Dubetchnya.  I have got a fellow there, but he is a wretched creature.”

“And what will my duties consist of?” I asked.

“We shall see.  Go there; meanwhile I will make arrangements.  Only please don’t get drunk, and don’t worry me with requests of any sort, or I shall send you packing.”

He turned away from me without even a nod.

I bowed to him and his daughter who was reading a newspaper, and went away.  My heart felt so heavy, that when my sister began asking me how the engineer had received me, I could not utter a single word.

I got up early in the morning, at sunrise, to go to Dubetchnya.  There was not a soul in our Great Dvoryansky Street; everyone was asleep, and my footsteps rang out with a solitary, hollow sound.  The poplars, covered with dew, filled the air with soft fragrance.  I was sad, and did not want to go away from the town.  I was fond of my native town.  It seemed to be so beautiful and so snug!  I loved the fresh greenery, the still, sunny morning, the chiming of our bells; but the people with whom I lived in this town were boring, alien to me, sometimes even repulsive.  I did not like them nor understand them.