Mikhalevich went away next day, in spite of all his host could do to detain him.  Lavretsky did not succeed in persuading him to stay, but he got as much talk as he wanted out of him.

It turned out that Mikhalevich was utterly impecunious.  Lavretsky had already been sorry to see in him, on the preceding evening, all the characteristics of a poverty of long standing.  His shoes were trodden down, his coat wanted a button behind, his hands were strangers to gloves, one or two bits of feather were sticking in his hair.  When he arrived, he did not think of asking for a wash; and at supper he ate like a shark, tearing the meat to pieces with his fingers, and noisily gnawing the bones with his firm, discolored teeth.

It turned out, also, that he had not thriven in the civil service, and that he had pinned all his hopes on the brandy-farmer, who had given him employment simply that he might have an “educated man” in his counting-house.  In spite of all this, however, Mikhalevich had not lost courage, but kept on his way leading the life of a cynic, an idealist, and a poet; fervently caring for, and troubling himself about, the destinies of humanity and his special vocation in life—­and giving very little heed to the question whether or no he would die of starvation.

Mikhalevich had never married; but he had fallen in love countless times, and he always wrote poetry about all his loves:  with especial fervor did he sing about a mysterious, raven-haired “lady.”  It was rumored, indeed, that this “lady” was nothing more than a Jewess, and one who had numerous friends among cavalry officers; but, after all, if one thinks the matter over, it is not one of much importance.

With Lemm, Mikhalevich did not get on well.  His extremely loud way of talking, his rough manners, frightened the German, to whom they were entirely novel.  One unfortunate man immediately and from afar recognizes another, but in old age he is seldom willing to associate with him.  Nor is that to be wondered at.  He has nothing to share with him—­not even hopes.

Before he left, Mikhalevich had another long talk with Lavretsky, to whom he predicted utter ruin if he did not rouse himself, and whom he entreated to occupy himself seriously with the question of the position of his serfs.  He set himself up as a pattern for imitation, saying that he had been purified in the furnace of misfortune; and then he several times styled himself a happy man, comparing himself to a bird of the air, a lily of the valley.

“A dusky lily, at all events,” remarked Lavretsky.

“Ah, brother, don’t come the aristocrat,” answered Mikhalevich good-humoredly; “but rather thank God that in your veins also there flows simple plebeian blood.  But I see you are now in need of some pure, unearthly being, who might rouse you from your apathy.”

“Thanks, brother,” said Lavretsky; “I have had quite enough of those unearthly beings.”