We are all experts at holding our tongues; our women in particular have that capacity: one exalted young Russian lady maintains silence so vigorously that such a spectacle is capable of producing a slight shiver and cold perspiration even in a man who has been forewarned. But that is not the point, and it is not for me to criticise other people. I will proceed to the promised story. Several years ago, thanks to a concurrence of trivial but, for me, very important circumstances, I chanced to pass six months in the county town of O***. This town is built entirely on a declivity. It has about eight hundred inhabitants, remarkably poor; the wretched little houses are outrageously bad; in the main street, under the guise of a pavement, formidable slabs of unhewn limestone crop out whitely here and there, in consequence of which, even the peasant-carts drive around it; in the very centre of an astonishingly untidy square rises a tiny yellowish structure with dark holes, and in the holes sit men in large caps with visors, and pretend to be engaged in trade; there, also, rears itself aloft a remarkably tall, striped pole, and beside the pole, by way of order, at the command of the authorities, a load of yellow hay is kept, and one governmental hen stalks about. In a word, in the town of O*** existence is excellent. During the early days of my sojourn in that town I nearly went out of my mind with ennui. I must say of myself that, although I am a superfluous man, of course, yet it is not of my own will; I am sickly myself, but I cannot endure anything sickly.... I would have no objections to happiness, I have even tried to approach it from the right and from the left.... And, therefore, it is not surprising that I can also feel bored, like any other mortal. I found myself in the town of O*** on business connected with the Government service.... Teréntievna is absolutely determined to kill me. Here is a specimen of our conversation: _Teréntievna._ O-okh, dear little father! why do you keep writing? It is n't healthy for you to write. _I._ But I 'm bored, Teréntievna. _She._ But do drink some tea and lie down. _I._ But I don't feel sleepy. _She._ Akh, dear little father! Why do you say that? The Lord be with you! Lie down now, lie down: it 's better for you. _I._ I shall die anyway, Teréntievna. _She._ The Lord forbid and have mercy!... Well, now, do you order me to make tea? _I._ I shall not survive this week, Teréntievna. _She._ Ii-i, dear little father! Why do you say that?... So I 'll go and prepare the samovár. Oh, decrepit, yellow, toothless creature! Is it possible that to you I am not a man! March 24. A hard frost.