such articles as mere instruments of distraction from ennui and lack of employment. Also, he always adopted towards authors that half-contemptuous attitude which used to be maintained by gentry of the ancien régime; for, like many of his day, he considered a writer of books to be a roisterer, a ne'er-do-well, a drunkard, a sort of merry-andrew. Also, he would read aloud items of intelligence from journals three years old—such items as, "It is reported from The Hague that, on returning to the Palace from a short drive, the King gazed at the assembled onlookers through his spectacles," or "At Vienna such and such an Ambassador has just presented his Letter of Credentials."

Again, there was a day when he read aloud the intelligence that a certain work by a foreign writer had just been translated into Russian.

"The only reason why they go in for translating such things," remarked a small landowner who happened to be present, "is that they may wheedle more money out of us dvoriané."^[1]

Meanwhile the little Ilya was engaged in journeying backwards and forwards to Schtoltz's school. Every Monday, when he