sorry for him, that I would go up to him, take his hand, and say: "Lieber Karl Ivánovich!" He liked my speaking thus to him: he would pat me, and it was evident that he was touched.
Upon the other wall hung maps, nearly all of them torn, but skilfully pasted up by the hand of Karl Ivánovich. On the third wall, in the middle of which was a door that led down-stairs, were hanging, on one side, two rulers: one, all cut up, belonged to us, the other, which was new, was his, and was used more for encouragement than for ruling; on the other side was a blackboard, on which our great transgressions were marked with circles, and our small ones with crosses. At the left of the board was the corner where we were made to kneel.
How well I remember that corner! I remember the valve in the stove, the ventilator in that valve, and the noise which it made whenever it was turned. When I had stood in the corner quite awhile, until my knees and back were aching, I thought: "Karl Ivánovich has forgotten about me. He, no doubt, feels rested, sitting in a soft chair, and reading his Hydrostatics, but how about me?" And to make him think of me, I would softly open and close the valve, or scratch off some stucco from the wall; but if suddenly an unusually large piece fell upon the ground, — then, indeed, the fright it gave me was worse than any punishment. I looked at Karl Ivánovich, — but he sat there with his book in his hand, as if he had not heard anything.
In the middle of the room stood a table which was covered with a torn black oilcloth, underneath which peeped out the edges that had been all cut up with pen-knives. Around the table were a few unpainted tabourets, which had assumed a gloss from long usage. The last wall was occupied by three windows. From these the following view was had: right below the windows was the road, every puddle, every pebble, and every rut of
