and lower, he had at last come to Progonnaya, and here he used to sell nothing but tea and cheap vodka, and for lunch hard-boiled eggs and dry sausages, which smelt of tar, and which he himself sarcastically said were only fit for the orchestra.  He was bald all over the top of his head, and had prominent blue eyes and thick bushy whiskers, which he often combed out, looking into the little looking-glass.  Memories of the past haunted him continually; he could never get used to sausage “only fit for the orchestra,” to the rudeness of the station-master, and to the peasants who used to haggle over the prices, and in his opinion it was as unseemly to haggle over prices in a refreshment room as in a chemist’s shop.  He was ashamed of his poverty and degradation, and that shame was now the leading interest of his life.

“Spring is late this year,” said Matvey, listening.  “It’s a good job; I don’t like spring.  In spring it is very muddy, Sergey Nikanoritch.  In books they write:  Spring, the birds sing, the sun is setting, but what is there pleasant in that?  A bird is a bird, and nothing more.  I am fond of good company, of listening to folks, of talking of religion or singing something agreeable in chorus; but as for nightingales and flowers—­bless them, I say!”

He began again about the tile factory, about the choir, but Sergey Nikanoritch could not get over his mortification, and kept shrugging his shoulders and muttering.  Matvey said good-bye and went home.

There was no frost, and the snow was already melting on the roofs, though it was still falling in big flakes; they were whirling rapidly round and round in the air and chasing one another in white clouds along the railway line.  And the oak forest on both sides of the line, in the dim light of the moon which was hidden somewhere high up in the clouds, resounded with a prolonged sullen murmur.  When a violent storm shakes the trees, how terrible they are!  Matvey walked along the causeway beside the line, covering his face and his hands, while the wind beat on his back.  All at once a little nag, plastered all over with snow, came into sight; a sledge scraped along the bare stones of the causeway, and a peasant, white all over, too, with his head muffled up, cracked his whip.  Matvey looked round after him, but at once, as though it had been a vision, there was neither sledge nor peasant to be seen, and he hastened his steps, suddenly scared, though he did not know why.

Here was the crossing and the dark little house where the signalman lived.  The barrier was raised, and by it perfect mountains had drifted and clouds of snow were whirling round like witches on broomsticks.  At that point the line was crossed by an old highroad, which was still called “the track.”  On the right, not far from the crossing, by the roadside stood Terehov’s tavern, which had been a posting inn.  Here there was always a light twinkling at night.