the lips red and fresh, and surmounted by a large black mustache; the pure oval of his somewhat swarthy face was of a marvelous regularity and simple beauty of feature, and the eyes, with the misty shadow over them, suited it exactly, seeming as it were to explain, as well as to complete, its beauty. Broad- chested, tall and well-proportioned, always wearing a smile of unconscious contentment, he was a terror to the men of Shikhan, and an object of delight to the women. He passed the best part of his day lying about, he did not care where, provided that the spot was well in the sun, and there, massive and indolent, he drank in short draughts of the fresh air and the light, his powerful chest rising and falling with the regularity of his strong, steady breathing.

He was twenty-five years of age, and had come into the town three years previously with a crew of stevedores from Promzino;¹

Women abused each other because of him, fought over him, and bore tales to husbands of his doings with their wives, which resulted in unmerciful beatings. Artyom remained perfectly indifferent to all this; he lay, at full length, like a cat warming himself in the sun, waiting until he was moved by one of the few desires which he was capable of feeling.

As a rule, he chose the hill on which the street abutted for his couch. Right in front of him lay the river, beyond which he could see the fields stretching away to the horizon, their smooth green surface broken here and there by gray patches, which were villages. Down there, in the midst of that verdant expanse, it was always cool and clear. By turning his head to the left he could see down the whole length of the street, overflowing with noisy life. If he looked attentively at this dark, surging mass, he could distinguish the outlines of well-known figures, he could hear the street’s hungry roar, and possibly a thought or two may have passed through his mind. Thick, high grasses grew up all around the spot where he reclined; a few decayed-looking birch trees stood in solitary wretchedness, with some uprooted elder-bushes. Here the rowdies came to sleep themselves sober and to play cards, to patch up their rags, and to rest themselves from work and tavern broils.

Artyom enjoyed no good reputation among them. In the assurance of his irresistible strength, he was often insolent towards them; and then he earned his bread with far too little trouble. These things combined awakened a spirit of envy; what was more, he very seldom shared his booty with anyone else. Comradeship was not a sentiment highly developed in him, and he was not fond of the society of his fellow-men. If anyone came up to him and began to talk, he was quite willing to answer, but he never was the one to begin a conversation; if money was begged of him for drink he gave it, but never took the initiative in standing treat, though among his friends it was the custom to eat and drink every kopeck’s worth in company.

It was there, as he lounged among the bushes, that Artyom received the messengers of love, who appeared in the guise of a dirty raggedly-dressed girl from the neighborhood, or of a boy in all respects equally filthy. They were usually of tender age, from seven to eight, rarely as old as ten, but they were nevertheless always profoundly impressed with the importance of their mission; they spoke in whispers, and there was an air of mystery on their ugly little faces.

“Uncle Artyom, Aunt Marya has told me to let you know that her husband has gone away, and that you are to hire a boat to take her into the fields—today.”

“Oh!” Artyom would drawl, lazily, and a smile would appear in his sleepy, beautiful eyes.

“You are to be sure and do this.”

“Yes, I will come—but tell me now—what is she like—this Aunt Marya?”