speak with some one new, who broke it. For such intellectual conversation Pobiedimsky had only one theme—epizooty. As a man who has been in a crowd a thousand strong sometimes remembers one face in particular, so Pobiedimsky, of all he had read at the Institute during his six months' studies, retained only one phrase:
“Epizooty is the cause of untold loss to agriculture. In combating it the public must itself walk hand in hand with the authorities.”
Before saying this to Gundasoff, my tutor thrice cleared his throat, and pulled his cloak nervously around him. When he had heard about epizooty my uncle looked earnestly at Pobiedimsky, and emitted a queer sound through his nose.
“I swear to God! . . .” he stammered, looking at us as if we were manikins. “This is indeed the real life. . . . This is what life should really be. And you, why are you so silent, Pelageya Ivanovna?” he said, turning to Tatiana Ivanovna, who reddened and coughed.
“Talk, ladies and gentlemen; sing . . . play! Lose no time! Time, the rascal, is flying . . . he won't wait. I swear to God — before you've had time to turn your head, old age is on you. . . . It's too late then to live! Isn't that so, Pelageya Ivanovna? On no account sit still and keep silence. . . .”
Supper was brought in from the kitchen. Uncle
