Fifteen years before, in his own house, in the best street in the town,
lived an official named Gromof--a solid and prosperous man. Gromof had
two sons, Sergéi and Iván. Sergéi, when a student in the fourth class,
was seized with consumption and died; and his death was the first of a
screes of misfortunes which overtook the Gromofs. A week after Sergéi's
death his old father was tried for forgery and misappropriation of
public moneys, and soon afterwards died of typhus in the prison
infirmary. His house and all his belongings were sold by auction, and
Iván Dmítritch and his mother remained without a penny.
When his father was alive, Iván Dmítritch studied at St. Petersburg
University, received an allowance of sixty or seventy roubles a month,
and had no idea of the meaning of poverty. Now he had to change his
whole life. From early morning till late at night he gave cheap lessons
to students and copied documents, yet starved, for all his earnings
went to support his mother. The life was impossible, and Iván Dmítritch
ruined his health and spirits, threw up his university studies, and
returned home. Through interest he obtained an appointment as usher in
the district school; but he was disliked by his colleagues, failed to
get on with the pupils, and gave up the post. His mother died. For
six months he lived without resources, eating black bread and drinking
water, until at last he obtained an appointment as Usher of the Court.
This duty he fulfilled until he was discharged owing to illness.
Never, even in his student days, had he had the appearance of a
strong man. He was pale, thin, and sensitive to cold; he ate little
and slept foully. A single glass of wine made him giddy and sent him
into hysterics. His disposition impelled him to seek companionship,
but thanks to his irritable and suspicious character he never became
intimate with anyone, and had no friends. Of his fellow-citizens he
always spoke with contempt, condemning as disgusting and repulsive
their gross ignorance and torpid, animal life. He spoke in a tenor
voice, loudly and passionately, and always seemed to be in a sincere
state of indignation, excitement, or rapture. However he began a
conversation, it ended always in one way--in a lament that the town was
stifling and tiresome, that its people had no high interests, but led
a dull, unmeaning life, varied only by violence, coarse debauchery and
hypocrisy; that scoundrels were fed and clothed while honest men ate
crusts; that the town was crying out for schools, honest newspapers,
a theatre, public lectures, an union of intellectual forces; and that
the time had come for the townspeople to awaken to, and be shocked at,
the state of affairs. In his judgments of men he laid on his colours
thickly, using only white and black, and recognising no gradations;
for him humanity was divided into two sections, honest men and
rogues--there was nothing between. Of woman and woman's love he spoke
passionately and with rapture. But he had never been in love.
In the town, notwithstanding his nervous character and censorious
temper, he was loved, and called caressingly "Vanya." His innate
delicacy, his attentiveness, his neatness, his moral purity, his worn
coat, his sickly appearance, the misfortunes of his family, inspired
in all feelings of warmth and compassion. Besides, he was educated
and well-read; in the opinion of the townsmen he knew everything; and
occupied among them the place of a walking reference-book. He read
much. He would sit for hours at the club, pluck nervously at his beard,
and turn over the pages of books and magazines--by his face it might be
seen that he was not reading but devouring. Yet reading was apparently
merely one of his nervous habits, for with equal avidity he read
everything that fell into his hands, even old newspapers and calendars.
At home he always read, lying down.