He began explaining why this was so, and produced hysteric laughter. When the laughter stopped, Aleksei Maksimovitch Simtsoff remembered that he too had once had a daughter.

“Her name was Lidka…she was a stout girl.” More than this he did not seem to remember, for he looked at them all, smiled in a guilty way, and remained silent.

Those men spoke very little to each other about their past, recalled it very seldom, and then only in its general outlines, and in a more or less cynical tone. Probably this was just as well, since, in many people, remembrance of the past kills all present energy and deadens all hope for the future.

And on the rainy, cold, gray autumn days these “creatures that once were men” gathered in the eating- house of Vaviloff. They were well known there, a little feared as thieves and rogues, a little despised as hard drinkers, but believed to be clever and, therefore, respected and listened to.

The eating-house of Egor Vaviloff was the club of the street and the “creatures that once were men” were its intelligentsia. On Saturday evenings or Sunday mornings, when the eating-house was packed, the “creatures that once were men” were welcome guests. They brought with them, into the poverty and sorrow-stricken crowd, consisting of the inhabitants of the street, their own atmosphere, in which there was something that brightened up the lives of men exhausted and perplexed by the struggle for existence, just as heavy drunkards as the inhabitants of Kuvalda’s den, and, like them, outcasts from the town. Their ability to talk on all subjects and jeer, the fearlessness of their opinions, their sharp repartee, courage in the presence of things of which the whole street was in terror, the whole daring demeanor of these men could not but fascinate their companions. Then, too, they were well versed in law, and could advise, write petitions, and help to swindle without being caught. For all this they were paid with vodka and with a flattering admiration of their talents.

The inhabitants of the street were divided into two parties, according to their affections. One was in favor of Kuvalda, who was thought “a real warrior and much braver than the teacher,” the other was convinced that the teacher, a man of great courage too, was in all ways “superior” to Kuvalda. The latter’s admirers were to be found in the crowd of well-known inveterate drunkards, thieves and rascals, for whom the road from beggary to prison was inevitable. Those who respected the teacher were steadier men, who still had expectations, still hoped for better things, eternally plotted something and were nearly always hungry.

The nature of the teacher’s and Kuvalda’s relations with the street may be gathered from the following:

They were discussing one day in the pub the resolution passed by the municipal authorities regarding the street. The inhabitants were to fill up all the pits and ditches, but neither manure nor carrion were to be used for the purpose, only rubbish and crushed stone from building premises.

“Where on earth am I going to get this crushed stone when the only thing I ever wanted to build was a starling-house and that I haven’t done yet?” Mokei Anisimoff complained. He traded in loaves of white bread baked by his wife.

The Captain decided to make a statement on the subject and banged his fist on the table to attract attention.

“Where can you get crushed stone and rubbish? Go and pull the Town Hall to pieces, my boys. It is so old that it is of no use to anyone, and you will thus be doing two good deeds for the adornment of the city. Firstly, by repairing our street; and secondly, by forcing them to erect a new Town Hall. If you want horses, get them from the Lord Mayor, and take his three daughters as well. They seem quite suitable for harness. Or else destroy the house of Judas Petunikoff and pave the street with its timber. By the way, Mokei, I know where your wife got the fire to bake today’s loaves; she used the shutters of the third window and the two steps of the porch of Judas’ house.”

When all present had laughed over this sufficiently, the grave market gardener, Pavlyugin, asked: