“Sir!” he said, laying his hand on his heart, “I really was . . . lying!  I am not a student and not a village schoolmaster.  All that’s mere invention!  I used to be in the Russian choir, and I was turned out of it for drunkenness.  But what can I do?  Believe me, in God’s name, I can’t get on without lying—­when I tell the truth no one will give me anything.  With the truth one may die of hunger and freeze without a night’s lodging!  What you say is true, I understand that, but . . . what am I to do?”

“What are you to do?  You ask what are you to do?” cried Skvortsov, going close up to him.  “Work—­that’s what you must do!  You must work!”

“Work. . . .  I know that myself, but where can I get work?”

“Nonsense.  You are young, strong, and healthy, and could always find work if you wanted to.  But you know you are lazy, pampered, drunken!  You reek of vodka like a pothouse!  You have become false and corrupt to the marrow of your bones and fit for nothing but begging and lying!  If you do graciously condescend to take work, you must have a job in an office, in the Russian choir, or as a billiard-marker, where you will have a salary and have nothing to do!  But how would you like to undertake manual labour?  I’ll be bound, you wouldn’t be a house porter or a factory hand!  You are too genteel for that!”

“What things you say, really . . .” said the beggar, and he gave a bitter smile.  “How can I get manual work?  It’s rather late for me to be a shopman, for in trade one has to begin from a boy; no one would take me as a house porter, because I am not of that class . . . .  And I could not get work in a factory; one must know a trade, and I know nothing.”

“Nonsense!  You always find some justification!  Wouldn’t you like to chop wood?”

“I would not refuse to, but the regular woodchoppers are out of work now.”

“Oh, all idlers argue like that!  As soon as you are offered anything you refuse it.  Would you care to chop wood for me?”

“Certainly I will. . .”

“Very good, we shall see. . . .  Excellent.  We’ll see!” Skvortsov, in nervous haste; and not without malignant pleasure, rubbing his hands, summoned his cook from the kitchen.

“Here, Olga,” he said to her, “take this gentleman to the shed and let him chop some wood.”

The beggar shrugged his shoulders as though puzzled, and irresolutely followed the cook.  It was evident from his demeanour that he had consented to go and chop wood, not because he was hungry and wanted to earn money, but simply from shame and amour propre, because he had been taken at his word.  It was clear, too, that he was suffering from the effects of vodka, that he was unwell, and felt not the faintest inclination to work.

Skvortsov hurried into the dining-room.  There from the window which looked out into the yard he could see the woodshed and everything that happened in the yard.  Standing at the window, Skvortsov saw the cook and the beggar come by the back way into the yard and go through the muddy snow to the woodshed.  Olga scrutinized her companion angrily, and jerking her elbow unlocked the woodshed and angrily banged the door open.