«Chelovek v Futlyare» in inglese

AT the furthest end of the village of Mironositskoe some belated sportsmen lodged for the night in the elder Prokofy's barn.

There were two of them, the veterinary surgeon Ivan Ivanovitch and the schoolmaster Burkin.

Ivan Ivanovitch had a rather strange double-barrelled surname — Tchimsha-Himalaisky — which did not suit him at all, and he was called simply Ivan Ivanovitch all over the province. He lived at a stud-farm near the town, and had come out shooting now to get a breath of fresh air.

Burkin, the high-school teacher, stayed every summer at Count P — — -'s, and had been thoroughly at home in this district for years.

They did not sleep.

Ivan Ivanovitch, a tall, lean old fellow with long moustaches, was sitting outside the door, smoking a pipe in the moonlight.

Burkin was lying within on the hay, and could not be seen in the darkness.

They were telling each other all sorts of stories.

Among other things, they spoke of the fact that the elder's wife, Mavra, a healthy and by no means stupid woman, had never been beyond her native village, had never seen a town nor a railway in her life, and had spent the last ten years sitting behind the stove, and only at night going out into the street.

"What is there wonderful in that!" said Burkin.

"There are plenty of people in the world, solitary by temperament, who try to retreat into their shell like a hermit crab or a snail.

Perhaps it is an instance of atavism, a return to the period when the ancestor of man was not yet a social animal and lived alone in his den, or perhaps it is only one of the diversities of human character — who knows?

I am not a natural science man, and it is not my business to settle such questions; I only mean to say that people like Mavra are not uncommon.

There is no need to look far; two months ago a man called Byelikov, a colleague of mine, the Greek master, died in our town.

You have heard of him, no doubt.

He was remarkable for always wearing goloshes and a warm wadded coat, and carrying an umbrella even in the very finest weather.

And his umbrella was in a case, and his watch was in a case made of grey chamois leather, and when he took out his penknife to sharpen his pencil, his penknife, too, was in a little case; and his face seemed to be in a case too, because he always hid it in his turned-up collar.