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‘To the point, to the point,’ we shouted. ‘Surely it’s not your own adventures you’re going to tell us?’

‘No, gentlemen!’ the small man replied composedly. ‘I am an ordinary mortal. And so I lived at my German’s, as the saying is, in clover. I did not attend lectures with too much assiduity, while at home I did positively nothing. In a very short time, I had got to know all my comrades and was on intimate terms with all of them. Among my new friends was one rather decent and good-natured fellow, the son of a town provost on the retired list. His name was Bobov. This Bobov got in the habit of coming to see me, and seemed to like me. I, too … do you know, I didn’t like him, nor dislike him; I was more or less indifferent…. I must tell I hadn’t in all Moscow a single relation, except an old uncle, who used sometimes to ask me for money. I never went anywhere, and was particularly afraid of women; I also avoided all acquaintance with the parents of my college friends, ever after one such parent (in my presence) pulled his son’s hair–because a button was off his uniform, while at the very time I hadn’t more than six buttons on my whole coat. In comparison with many of my comrades, I passed for being a person of wealth; my father used to send me every now and then small packets of faded blue notes, and consequently I not only enjoyed a position of independence, but I was continually surrounded by toadies and flatterers…. What am I saying?–why, for that matter, so was my bobtail dog Armishka, who, in spite of his setter pedigree, was so frightened of a shot, that the very sight of a gun reduced him to indescribable misery. Like every young man, however, I was not without that vague inward fermentation which usually, after bringing forth a dozen more or less shapeless poems, passes off in a peaceful and propitious manner. I wanted something, strove towards something, and dreamed of something; I’ll own I didn’t know precisely what it was I dreamed of. Now I understand what was lacking:–I felt my loneliness, thirsted for the society of so-called live people; the word Life waked echoes in my heart, and with a vague ache I listened to the sound of it…. Valerian Nikitich, pass me a cigarette.’

Lighting the cigarette, the small man continued:

‘One fine morning Bobov came running to me, out of breath: “Do you know, old man, the great news? Kolosov has arrived.” “Kolosov? and who on earth is Mr. Kolosov?”

‘”You don’t know him? Andriusha Kolosov! Come, old boy, let’s go to him directly. He came back last night from a holiday engagement.” “But what sort of fellow is he?” “An exceptional man, my boy, let me assure you!” “An exceptional man,” I answered; “then you go alone. I’ll stop at home. I know your exceptional men! A half-tipsy rhymester with an everlastingly ecstatic smile!” … “Oh no! Kolosov’s not like that.” I was on the point of observing that it was for Mr. Kolosov to call on me; but, I don’t know why, I obeyed Bobov and went. Bobov conducted me to one of the very dirtiest, crookedest, and narrowest streets in Moscow…. The house in which Kolosov lodged was built in the old-fashioned style, rambling and uncomfortable. We went into the courtyard; a fat peasant woman was hanging out clothes on a line stretched from the house to the fence…. Children were squalling on the wooden staircase…’

‘Get on! get on!’ we objected plaintively.

‘I see, gentlemen, you don’t care for the agreeable, and cling solely to the profitable. As you please! We groped our way through a dark and narrow passage to Kolosov’s room; we went in. You have most likely an approximate idea of what a poor student’s room is like. Directly facing the door Kolosov was sitting on a chest of drawers, smoking a pipe. He gave his hand to Bobov in a friendly way, and greeted me affably. I looked at Kolosov and at once felt irresistibly drawn to him. Gentlemen! Bobov was right: Kolosov really was a remarkable person. Let me describe a little more in detail…. He was rather tall, slender, graceful, and exceedingly good-looking. His face…I find it very difficult to describe his face. It is easy to describe all the features one by one; but how is one to convey to any one else what constitutes the distinguishing characteristic, the essence of just that face?’