Petrov’s and Yegorov’s marks for conduct, kept them in, and in the end expelled them both.  He had a strange habit of visiting our lodgings.  He would come to a teacher’s, would sit down, and remain silent, as though he were carefully inspecting something.  He would sit like this in silence for an hour or two and then go away.  This he called ’maintaining good relations with his colleagues’; and it was obvious that coming to see us and sitting there was tiresome to him, and that he came to see us simply because he considered it his duty as our colleague.  We teachers were afraid of him.  And even the headmaster was afraid of him.  Would you believe it, our teachers were all intellectual, right-minded people, brought up on Turgenev and Shtchedrin, yet this little chap, who always went about with goloshes and an umbrella, had the whole high-school under his thumb for fifteen long years!  High-school, indeed—­he had the whole town under his thumb!  Our ladies did not get up private theatricals on Saturdays for fear he should hear of it, and the clergy dared not eat meat or play cards in his presence.  Under the influence of people like Byelikov we have got into the way of being afraid of everything in our town for the last ten or fifteen years.  They are afraid to speak aloud, afraid to send letters, afraid to make acquaintances, afraid to read books, afraid to help the poor, to teach people to read and write....”

Ivan Ivanovitch cleared his throat, meaning to say something, but first lighted his pipe, g azed at the moon, and then said, with pauses: 

“Yes, intellectual, right minded people read Shtchedrin and Turgenev, Buckle, and all the rest of them, yet they knocked under and put up with it... that’s just how it is.”

“Byelikov lived in the same house as I did,” Burkin went on, “on the same storey, his door facing mine; we often saw each other, and I knew how he lived when he was at home.  And at home it was the same story:  dressing-gown, nightcap, blinds, bolts, a perfect succession of prohibitions and restrictions of all sorts, and—­’Oh, I hope nothing will come of it!’ Lenten fare was bad for him, yet he could not eat meat, as people might perhaps say Byelikov did not keep the fasts, and he ate freshwater fish with butter—­not a Lenten dish, yet one could not say that it was meat.  He did not keep a female servant for fear people might think evil of him, but had as cook an old man of sixty, called Afanasy, half-witted and given to tippling, who had once been an officer’s servant and could cook after a fashion.  This Afanasy was usually standing at the door with his arms folded; with a deep sigh, he would mutter always the same thing: 

“‘There are plenty of them about nowadays!’