family, and a man of mild disposition, who passed his life in a dressing-gown and slippers; he did not trouble his head about his family; his time was devoted rather to speculative inquiries and engrossed with the following philosophical—as he called it—questions: 'Now for instance the animal is born naked,' he would say as he walked up and down the room. 'Why is it that he is naked? Why isn't he born like a bird: why isn't he hatched out of an egg? It really is … er … The more you look into nature the harder it is to understand! …' Such were the meditations of the worthy citizen Kifa Mokievitch. But that is not what matters. The other citizen was Moky Kifovitch, his son. He was what is called in Russia a bogatyr, and while his father was absorbed in the question of the problem of the birth of animals, this muscular young man of twenty craved for self-expression. He could not do anything by halves: somebody's arm was always broken or somebody else had a bump on his nose. Every one in the house or the neighbourhood—from the serf-girl to the yard dog—fled at the sight of him: he even smashed his own bedstead into fragments. Such was Moky Kifovitch, but yet he had a kind heart. But that is not the point either. The point really is this: 'Mercy on us, kind sir, Kifa Mokievitch,' said all the servants of his own and the neighbouring households to his father, 'your Moky Kifovitch is too much for us. Nobody has any peace for him, he is such
