“Byelikov had a little bedroom like a box; his bed had curtains.  When he went to bed he covered his head over; it was hot and stuffy; the wind battered on the closed doors; there was a droning noise in the stove and a sound of sighs from the kitchen—­ominous sighs....  And he felt frightened under the bed-clothes.  He was afraid that something might happen, that Afanasy might murder him, that thieves might break in, and so he had troubled dreams all night, and in the morning, when we went together to the high-school, he was depressed and pale, and it was evident that the high-school full of people excited dread and aversion in his whole being, and that to walk beside me was irksome to a man of his solitary temperament.

“‘They make a great noise in our classes,’ he used to say, as though trying to find an explanation for his depression.  ’It’s beyond anything.’

“And the Greek master, this man in a case—­would you believe it?—­almost got married.”

Ivan Ivanovitch glanced quickly into the barn, and said: 

“You are joking!”

“Yes, strange as it seems, he almost got married.  A new teacher of history and geography, Milhail Savvitch Kovalenko, a Little Russian, was appointed.  He came, not alone, but with his sister Varinka.  He was a tall, dark young man with huge hands, and one could see from his face that he had a bass voice, and, in fact, he had a voice that seemed to come out of a barrel—­’boom, boom, boom!’ And she was not so young, about thirty, but she, too, was tall, well-made, with black eyebrows and red cheeks—­in fact, she was a regular sugar-plum, and so sprightly, so noisy; she was always singing Little Russian songs and laughing.  For the least thing she would go off into a ringing laugh—­’Ha-ha-ha!’ We made our first thorough acquaintance with the Kovalenkos at the headmaster’s name-day party.  Among the glum and intensely bored teachers who came even to the name-day party as a duty we suddenly saw a new Aphrodite risen from the waves; she walked with her arms akimbo, laughed, sang, danced....  She sang with feeling ‘The Winds do Blow,’ then another song, and another, and she fascinated us all—­all, even Byelikov.  He sat down by her and said with a honeyed smile: 

“’The Little Russian reminds one of the ancient Greek in its softness and agreeable resonance.’

“That flattered her, and she began telling him with feeling and earnestness that they had a farm in the Gadyatchsky district, and that her mamma lived at the farm, and that they had such pears, such melons, such kabaks!  The Little Russians call pumpkins kabaks (i.e., pothouses), while their pothouses they call shinki, and they make a beetroot soup with tomatoes and aubergines in it, ’which was so nice—­awfully nice!’

“We listened and listened, and suddenly the same idea dawned upon us all: 

“‘It would be a good thing to make a match of it,’ the headmaster’s wife said to me softly.