The prince did not, as a rule, like to complain of his straitened circumstances; where poverty was concerned he was reserved and exceedingly proud and sensitive, and so this announcement surprised me.  He stared a long time at the yellow clearing, warmed by the sun, watched a long string of cranes float in the azure sky, and turned facing me.

“And by the sixth of September I must have the money ready for the bank . . . the interest for my estate,” he said aloud, by now regardless of the coachman.  “And where am I to get it?  Altogether, old man, I am in a tight fix!  An awfully tight fix!”

The prince examined the cock of his gun, blew on it for some reason, and began looking for the cranes which by now were out of sight.

“Sergey Ivanitch,” I asked, after a minute’s silence, “imagine if they sell your Shatilovka, what will you do?”

“I?  I don’t know!  Shatilovka can’t be saved, that’s clear as daylight, but I cannot imagine such a calamity.  I can’t imagine myself without my daily bread secure.  What can I do?  I have had hardly any education; I have not tried working yet; for government service it is late to begin, . . .  Besides, where could I serve?  Where could I be of use?  Admitting that no great cleverness is needed for serving in our Zemstvo, for example, yet I suffer from . . . the devil knows what, a sort of faintheartedness, I haven’t a ha’p’orth of pluck.  If I went into the Service I should always feel I was not in my right place.  I am not an idealist; I am not a Utopian; I haven’t any special principles; but am simply, I suppose, stupid and thoroughly incompetent, a neurotic and a coward.  Altogether not like other people.  All other people are like other people, only I seem to be something . . . a poor thing. . . .  I met Naryagin last Wednesday —­you know him?—­drunken, slovenly . . . doesn’t pay his debts, stupid” (the prince frowned and tossed his head) . . . “a horrible person!  He said to me, staggering:  ’I’m being balloted for as a justice of the peace!’ Of course, they won’t elect him, but, you see, he believes he is fit to be a justice of the peace and considers that position within his capacity.  He has boldness and self-confidence.  I went to see our investigating magistrate too.  The man gets two hundred and fifty roubles a month, and does scarcely anything.  All he can do is to stride backwards and forwards for days together in nothing but his underclothes, but, ask him, he is convinced he is doing his work and honourably performing his duty.  I couldn’t go on like that!  I should be ashamed to look the clerk in the face.”

At that moment Grontovsky, on a chestnut horse, galloped by us with a flourish.  On his left arm the basket bobbed up and down with the mushrooms dancing in it.  As he passed us he grinned and waved his hand, as though we were old friends.