an extra. . . . It's poverty, not greediness. And it would be jolly, now, you know, to be going
with a party to the service, and then to break the fast. . . . To drink and to have a bit of
supper and tumble off to sleep. . . . One sits down to the table, there's an Easter cake and the
samovar hissing, and some charming little thing beside you. . . . You drink a glass and
chuck her under the chin, and it's first-rate. . . . You feel you're somebody. . . . Ech h-h! . . .
I've made a mess of things! Look at that hussy driving by in her carriage, while I have to sit
here and brood."
"We each have our lot in life, Ivan Danilitch. Please God, you'll be promoted and drive
about in your carriage one day."
"I? No, brother, not likely. I shan't get beyond a 'titular,' not if I try till I burst. I'm not an
educated man."
"Our General has no education either, but . . ."
"Well, but the General stole a hundred thousand before he got his position. And he's got
very different manners and deportment from me, brother. With my manners and deportment
one can't get far! And such a scoundrelly surname, Nevyrazimov! It's a hopeless position, in
fact. One may go on as one is, or one may hang oneself . . ."
He moved away from the window and walked wearily about the rooms. The din of the bells
grew louder and louder. . . . There was no need to stand by the window to hear it. And the
better he could hear the bells and the louder the roar of the carriages, the darker seemed the
muddy walls and the smutty cornice and the more the lamp smoked.
"Shall I hook it and leave the office?" thought Nevyrazimov.
But such a flight promised nothing worth having. . . . After coming out of the office and
wandering about the town, Nevyrazimov would have gone home to his lodging, and in his
lodging it was even grayer and more depressing than in the office. . . . Even supposing he
were to spend that day pleasantly and with comfort, what had he beyond? Nothing but the
same gray walls, the same stop-gap duty and complimentary letters. . . .
Nevyrazimov stood still in the middle of the office and sank into thought. The yearning for
a new, better life gnawed at his heart with an intolerable ache. He had a passionate longing
to find himself suddenly in the street, to mingle with the living crowd, to take part in the
solemn festivity for the sake of which all those bells were clashing and those carriages were
rumbling. He longed for what he had known in childhood -- the family circle, the festive
faces of his own people, the white cloth, light, warmth . . . ! He thought of the carriage in
which the lady had just driven by, the overcoat in which the head clerk was so smart, the
gold chain that adorned the secretary's chest. . . . He thought of a warm bed, of the Stanislav
order, of new boots, of a uniform without holes in the elbows. . . . He thought of all those
things because he had none of them.
"Shall I steal?" he thought. "Even if stealing is an easy matter, hiding is what's difficult.
Men run away to America, they say, with what they've stolen, but the devil knows where
that blessed America is. One must have education even to steal, it seems."