It might be expected that the first effort of a new boy would be to listen to the teacher’s questions and the pupils’ answers. But Raisky stared at the teacher, as if seeking to impress on his memory the details of his appearance, his speech, how he took snuff; he looked at his eyebrows, his beard, then at his clothes, at the cornelian seal suspended across his waistcoat, and so on. Then he would observe each of the other boys and note their peculiarities, or he would study his own person, and wonder what his own face was like, what the others thought of him.... “What did I say just now?” interrupted the master, noticing Boris’s wandering glance. To the teacher’s amazement Boris replied word for word, “And what is the meaning of this?” He had listened mechanically, and had caught the actual syllables. The master repeated his explanation, and again Boris caught the sound of his voice, noticing that sometimes he spoke shortly, staccato--sometimes drawled as if he were singing, and then rapped out his words smartly like nuts. “Well?” Raisky blushed, perspired with anxiety, and was silent. It was the mathematical master. He went to the blackboard, wrote up the problem, and again began the explanation. Raisky only noticed with what rapidity and certainty he wrote the figures, how the waistcoat with the cornelian seal and then the snuff-spattered shirt front came nearer--nothing, except the solution of the problem, escaped him. Now and then a notion penetrated to his brain, but when it came to equations he grew weary with the effort required. Sometimes the teacher lost patience with him, and generally concluded: “Go back to your place, you are a blockhead.” But if a whiff of originality passed over the master himself, if he taught as if it were a game, and had recourse neither to his book nor to the blackboard, then the solution flashed on Raisky, and he found the answer quicker than any of the others. He consumed passionately history, novels and tales; wherever he could he begged for books. But he did not like facts or theories or anything that drew him from the world of fancy towards the world of reality. In the geography lesson he could not understand how any boy could answer in class, but once out of class he could talk about foreign countries and cities, or about the sea, to the amazement of his classmates. He had not learnt it from the teacher or from a book, but he gave a picture of the place as if he had actually been there. “You are inventing,” a sceptical listener would say. “Vassili Nikitich never said that.” His companions did not know what to make of him, for his sympathies changed so often that he had neither constant friends nor constant enemies. One week he would attach himself to one boy, seek his society, sit with him, read to him, talk to him and give him his confidence. Then, for no reason, he would leave him, enter into close relations with another boy, and then as speedily forget him.