Beside all these naive, touching, laughable, lofty and shiftless qualities of the old Russian student, passing—­and God knows if for the better?—­into the realm of historical memories, he possessed still another amazing ability—­to invent money and arrange for credit in little restaurants and cook-shops.  All the employees of pawnshops and loan offices, secret and manifest usurers, and old-clo’-men were on terms of the closest friendship with him.

But if for certain reasons he could not resort to them, then even here Soloviev remained at the height of his resourcefulness.  At the head of a knot of impoverished friends, and weighed down with his usual business responsibility, he would at times be illumined by an inner inspiration; make at a distance, across the street, a mysterious sign to a Tartar passing with his bundle behind his shoulders, and for a few seconds would disappear with him into the nearest gates.  He would quickly return without his everyday coat, only in his blouse with the skirts outside, belted with a thin cord; or, in winter, without his overcoat, in the thinnest of small suits; or instead of the new, just purchased uniform cap—­in a tiny jockey cap, holding by a miracle on the crown of his head.

Everybody loved him:  comrades, servants, women, children.  And all were familiar with him.  He enjoyed especial good-will from his bosom cronies, the Tartars, who, apparently, deemed him a little innocent.  They would sometimes, in the summer, bring as a present the strong, intoxicating KOUMYSS in big quartern bottles, while at Bairam they would invite him to eat a suckling colt with them.  No matter how improbable it may seem, still, Soloviev at critical moments gave away for safe-keeping certain books and brochures to the Tartars.  He would say at this with the most simple and significant air:  “That which I am giving you is a Great Book.  It telleth, that Allah Akbar, and that Mahomet is his prophet, that there is much evil and poverty on earth, and that men must be merciful and just to each other.”

He also had two other abilities:  he read aloud very well; and played at chess amazingly, like a master, like a downright genius, defeating first-class players in jest.  His attack was always impetuous and rigorous; his defense wise and cautious, preferably in an oblique direction; his concessions to his opponent full of refined, far-sighted calculation and murderous craftiness.  With this, he made moves as though under the influence of some inner instinct, or inspiration; not pondering for more than four or five seconds and resolutely despising the respected traditions.

He was not willingly played with; his manner of play was held barbarous, but still they played, sometimes for large sums of money; which, invariably winning, Soloviev readily laid down upon the altar of his comrades’ needs.  But he steadfastly declined from participation in competitions, which could have created for him the position of a star in the world of chess:  “There is in my nature neither love for this nonsense, nor respect,” he would say.  “I simply possess some sort of a mechanical ability of the mind, some sort of a psychic deformity.  Well, now, just as there are lefties.  And for that reason I’ve no professional self-respect, nor pride at victory, nor spleen at losing.”