At the very edge of the village of Miranositzky, in the barn of the elder of Prokofiya, two hunters stayed for the night who were running late. There were only two of them: the veterinarian Ivan Ivanich and the schoolteacher Burkin. Ivan Ivanich had a rather strange double surname — Chimsha-Himalaysky, which completely did not suit him, and in all of the province they called him simply by his first name and patronymic; he lived near town on a horse farm and arrived now to hunt in order to breathe clean air. The schoolteacher Burkin stayed each summer as a guest of Count P. and in this locality had already long been his man.
    They were not sleeping. Ivan Ivanich, a tall, thin elderly man with a long mustache, was sitting outside by the entrance and smoking a pipe; he was illuminated by the moon. Burkin laid inside on the hay, and in the darkness he was not visible.
   They were telling different stories. Among other things they spoke about, that the wife of the elder, Maura, a healthy woman and not stupid, in all her life never went anywhere farther than the village of her birth, never saw either a city, or a railway, but in the last ten years only sat at the stove and only went outside at night.              
   — How truly astonishing it is here!— said Burkin.— People, lonely by nature, who like a hermit crab or a snail, try to recede into their shell, are not few in this world. Here maybe, is the appearance of atavism, a return to that time when the ancestor of man was still not a social creature and lived alone in his cave, but maybe this is simply one of various types of human dispositions, — who knows? I am not a scientist and it is not my concern to touch upon such questions; I only want to say that such people, like Maura, are not a rare appearance. Yes here, one need not look too far, two months ago passed away in our city a certain Belikov, professor of Greek language, my colleague. You have heard about him, of course. He was extraordinary because he always, even in very pleasant weather, went out in galoshes and with an umbrella, and invariably in a warm wool overcoat. And he had an umbrella in a case, and a watch in a case made of gray leather, and when he took out a penknife to sharpen up pencils, then his knife was in a little case; and his face, it appeared, was also in a case since he always concealed it in an uplifted collar. He wore dark glasses, a shawl, ears covered with wool, and when he sat down in a cab, then he asked to raise the top. In short, in this person was continuously and indefatigably observed the effort to surround himself with a barrier, to make himself, as one would say, a case, which isolated him and would protect him from outside influences. Reality irritated him, frightened him, kept him in constant anxiety, and maybe, in order so that he could fix this timidity of his, his aversion towards the present, he always praised the past and that, which never had been; and the ancient languages he taught, were for him, in essence, those same galoshes and umbrella, where he kept himself concealed from actual life.
   —Oh, how sonorous, how beautiful is the Greek language! — he said with a sweet expression; and as if in proof of his words, he wrinkled his eyes and lifted a finger, pronounced:

— Anthropos!
   His thinking, too, Belikov also tried to hide away inside a case. For him only sensible were circulars and newspapers articles, in which something was being forbidden. When they forbade teachers in the circular to go outside after nine o’ clock in the evening or in any article forbid carnal lust, then this was sensible to him, well defined; forbidden— and that was that. In permission and allowance, for him, was always hidden a doubtful element, something left unsaid and vague. When in town they allowed a drama club, or books, or tea, then he shook his head and said quietly: 
   — It is, of course, true, all of this is marvelous, let us hope nothing bad happens.
   Every type of breaking, deviation, or retreat from the rules brought him into a depression, although, as it would seem, what was this to him? If one of his colleagues was late for a service, or rumors arrived of any schoolboy prank, or they saw a gorgeous woman with an officer in the late evening, he became very nervous and always said, let us hope nothing bad happens. But during academic council meetings he simply depressed us with his cautiousness, suspicion and his cleanly case-like notions that, somewhere in the men’s and women's schools a young person behaves poorly, makes too much noise during class, — oh, how couldn’t it have reached the administration, let us hope nothing bad happens, — and what if they exclude Petrov from the second grade, but from the fourth— Yegorova, then it would be very good. And what of it? With his deep breaths, and whining, with his dark glasses and pale, small face, — you know, a small face, like a ferret, — he pressured us all, and we yielded, reduced Petrov and Yegorova one mark for behavior, held them back and ultimately expelled both Petrov and Yegorova. It was a strange habit of his to stroll around our quarters. He will come up to a teacher, sit down and remain silent, as if looking at something. He will sit, just like so, for another hour and leave. This is referred to, according to him, as “supporting positive relations with colleagues,” and obviously, to come up to us and sit was a burden for him, and he did so only because he considered it his collegial obligation. We teachers feared him. And even the director feared him. You go here, our teachers are all a reasoning people, highly estimable, raised on Turgenev and Shchedrin, however this man, always pacing in galoshes and with an umbrella, kept the school in his clutches for an entire fifteen years! Yet only just the school? The entire town! Our ladies on Saturdays did not put on home concerts, they feared that he might learn about them; and the clergy was too shy to eat meat and to play cards around him. Under the sway of people like Belikov, for the past ten— fifteen years in our town they started to be afraid of everything. They fear talking loudly, to send letters, to meet one another, read books, they fear to help the less fortunate, to teach grammar…         
   Ivan Ivanich coughed, wishing to say something, but first smoked the pipe, looked at the moon and then now said deliberately:
              — Yes. Reasoning, proper, they read Shchedrin and Turgenev,  others like Buckle and so on, but here they submitted, they lost…that is the rub.
   — Belikov lived in the exact same place that I did, — continued Burkin. — on the exact same floor, the door across from me, we often saw one another, and I knew his home life. At home also the exact same story: a robe, cap, shutters, bolts, a whole series of all prohibitions, restrictions, and — oh, let us hope nothing bad happens! To not eat meat on Lent is harmful, but meat is forbidden, so that, probably, they will say that Belikov does not fulfill the fast, and he was eating pike with butter, — not a vegetarian form of nourishment, but one also cannot say that it is meat. He did not keep a female housekeeper out of fear, so they would not think about him meanly, but he employed the chef Athanasius,  an old man of sixty years old, intoxicated and half-mad, who once worked as a military aid and knew how to cook somehow. This Athanasius usually stood by the door with arms crossed, and always mumbled the exact same thing, with a deep sigh:
   —So many of them have now multiplied!
   Belikov’s bedroom was small, like a drawer, with a curtain bed. Laying down to sleep, he covered himself over his head; it was hot, stuffy, the wind knocked against the closed doors, inside the stove groaned, sighs were heard from the kitchen, ominous sighs…       
  It was also frightening to him under the blanket. He feared, that nothing bad would happen, how he would stabbed by Anathasius, that thieves would be hiding out, and then all night long he saw restless dreams, and in the morning, when we walked to school together, he was stuffed up, pale, and it was evident, that the crowded school he traveled to was frightening, contrary to all his being and that to walk next to me, for him, a person with a lonesome nature, was burdensome.
   — They make to much noise with us in classes now, — he said, as if he were trying to find an explanation for his burdened sensation. — It is like nothing else. And this teacher of Greek language, this man in a case, you can picture yourself, almost got married.
    Ivan Ivanich quickly looked around the barn and said:
   —You are joking!
   — Yes, he almost got married, how strange it is. They appointed a new teacher of history and geography, a certain Kovalenko, Mikhail Savich, a Ukrainian. He arrived not alone, but with a sister Varenka. He is young, tall, dark, with enormous arms, and by his look it is visible that he speaks in a bass tone, and the voice is really like from a barrel: bu-bu-bu…. and she is not so young already, thirty years old, but also tall, good looking, with dark brow, red cheeks,— in short, not a maiden, but a marmalade, and so bright, noisy, always singing Ukrainian songs and bursting into laughter. Nothing much to say, and she will break out into laughter: ha-ha-ha! The first solid acquaintance we had with the Kovalenkos, I remember, occurred on the director's name day. Among strict, tensely boing pedagogues, who also attend such name days by obligation, suddenly we see, new Aphrodite rejuvenated from the foam: she walks , laughs, sings, dances… she sang “The Winds Blow” with emotion, then another tune, and another, and charmed us all, — everyone, even Belikov. He sat down next to her and said, sweetly smiling:
   — Ukrainian language with its gentleness and pleasant sonorousness is reminiscent of Ancient Greek.
             This flattered her, and she began to tell him earnestly and convincingly, that she had a farm in Gadyachsky region, but that her mother lived on the farm, and there are such pears, such melons, such pumpkins there! The Ukrainians call "tikvy" “kabaki”, but "kabaki" “shinki”, and they cook borscht with reds and blues “how delicious, how delicious, that simply— awful!”
   We listened, listened, and suddenly the exact same thought dawned on all of us at the same time.       
   — It would be nice if they got married, — the director said to me quietly.       
   We recalled for some reason, that our Belikov was not married, and it now seemed strange to us, that up until this time somehow we did not recognize it, such an important detail in his life had completely dropped from view. How does he relate to a woman in general, how does he resolve this urgent question for himself? Before this did not interest us in the slightest; perhaps, we also did not permit even the thought, that a person, who in any type of weather walks in galoshes and sleeps under a curtain, could be in love.      
   —He is already long turned forty, and she is thirty…— the director clarified his thought. —Seems to me, she would marry him.
   What did not happen around us in the provinces only from boredom, how much unnecessary, nonsensical! This is because, what does not happen at all is that, which is necessary. For what reason did we suddenly need to marry this Belikov, who it was impossible to even imagine getting married? The director, inspector, and all of our school ladies became animated, even got more beautiful, as if they suddenly saw the meaning of life. The director reserves a box in the theater, and we watch— in her loge sits Varenka with some type of fan, radiant, happy, and Belikov next to her, small, contorted, as if they dragged him from the house with ticks. I throw a party, and the ladies insist that I must invite Belikov and Varenka. In short, the machine started in motion. It turned out that Varenka was not opposed to getting married. To live with her brother was not really pleasant to her, all they knew, was that they argued and swore all day long. Here is a scene for you: Kovalenko walks down the street, a tall, healthy, slim person in an embroidered shirt, a forelock under his cap rests on his forehead; in one arm a packet of books, in the other a hefty, knotted walking stick. Behind him walks his sister, also with books.
   — Look here Mikhailik, you did not read this! — she argues loudly. — I am telling you, I swear it, you did not read this one at all!
   —And I am telling you, that I did read it! — shouts Kovalenko, clacking his stick on the sidewalk.
   —Oh my, oh my lord, Minchik! What are you getting angry for, you know we are having a reasonable conversation.
   —And I am telling you, that I read it! — shouts Kovalenko even louder.
  But at home, like being someone unwelcome, such was the conflict. This sort of life, probably, was boring, one desires their own space, and take age into consideration, as well; there is already no time to sort it out, you marry whoever is suitable, even a Greek language teacher. And then to mention, for the majority of our girls who they will marry is not so important, as long as they marry someone. So it happened Varenka began to show a clear preference to our Belikov.  
   And Belikov? He came to Kovalenko in the same way as he did to us. He arrives at his place, they sit and remain quiet. He is silent, and Varenka sings to him “The Wind Blows”, either looks at him contempatively with her dark eyes, or suddenly bursts out: — ha-ha-ha! In matters of love, and especially in marriage, suggestion plays a big part. Everyone — both gentlemen, and ladies — started to convince Belikov that he needed to get married, that nothing else remained for him in life, so to get married; we all congratulated him, spoke various frivolities with serious faces, of the sort like, marriage is a serious step; that Varenka was not at all unattractive, interesting, she was the daughter of a state councilor and had a farm, but mainly, this was the first woman who treated him tenderly, warmly — his head spun around, and he decided, that he really did need to marry.
   — This is the place where the galoshes and umbrella would also be taken away from him, — said Ivan Ivanich.
   — Can you imagine, it turned out to be impossible. He put a picture of Varenka on the table in his room and always came to me and talked about Varenka, about family life, that a wedding is a serious step, he often spent time with the Kovalenko’s, but his way of life did not change at all. Even vice-versa, the decision to marry made him somehow ill, he became thinner, paler, and it seemed, went ever deeper into his case.
   —I like Varenka Savishna — he was saying to me with a weak, crooked smile, — and I know every man needs to get married, but… all this, you know, happened somehow quickly… it is necessary to think.                    
     — What is there to think about here? — I say to him. —Get married, do it and that is it.
   — No, marriage is— an important step, first I have to weigh the forthcoming obligations, responsibility… so then nothing would go wrong. This worries me so, now I do not sleep all night. And, to confess, I am frightened: she and her brother have some type of strange way of reasoning, they discuss somehow, you know, strangely, and the personality is very lively. You will get married, but then, for all that is decent, you will end up in stuck in some type of scene.
   And he did not make proposals, everything was put aside, to the great annoyance of the director and all of our ladies; he weighed all of the forthcoming obligations and responsibility, and meanwhile almost every day he was walking with Varenka, maybe he was thinking that it was imperative in his situation, and he came to me to talk about family life. And, in all probability, he would finally have made the proposal and accomplished one of those frivolous, stupid marriages, which from boredom and nothing to do we complete thousands of, if only a colossal scandal suddenly would not have taken place. It must be said, that Varenka’s brother, Kovalenko, hated Belikov from the very first encounter and could not stand him.     
   —I do not understand, — he said to us, shrugging his shoulders, — I do not understand, how you digest this rogue, this ugly face. Eck, sirs, how can you live here! The atmosphere around you is stifling, foul. Are you pedagogues, instructors? You are lackeys, you do not have a temple of learning, but a board of manners, and stinks sour like a police booth. No, friends, I will remain with you a bit longer and then go back home, and there I will go hunt crabs and teach the youth. I will leave, but you remain here with your Judas, let him burst.
   Or he laughed, laughed until he cried, with a bass tone, then a high pitched voice, and asked me, waving his arms:
    —What is he sitting next to me for? What does he need? To sit and to watch. He even gave Belikov the name “the spider”.  And understandably, we avoid speaking with him about it, that his sister Varenka planned to marry “the spider.” And when the principal once hinted to him, that it would be good to set up his sister with such an upstanding man, respected by all, like Belikov, then he frowned and said aloud:
   —This is none of my business. Let her marry even a snake, but I do not like to interfere in others' affairs.
   Now listen what happens next.  Some joker drew a caricature: Belikov walks in galoshes, rolled up pants, under an umbrella, and Varenka on his arm; underneath is the caption: “Anthropos in Love.” The look was captured, if you understand, astonishingly. The artist, it must be, worked more than one night, because all of the teachers at the men’s and women’s schools, seminary instructors, administrators, — everyone received fascimiles. Belikov received one, too. The caricature left upon him the heaviest impression.             

    We are leaving the boarding house together, — this was exactly first of May, Sunday, and all of us, teachers and students, arranged to meet near the school and walk together from town into the woods, — we are leaving, but he is green, darker than a raincloud.
   —What indecent, wicked people! — he spoke, and his lips were shaking. I even started to feel pity on him. We walk and suddenly, you can imagine, Kovalenko rides on a bicycle, but Varenka behind him, also on a bicycle, red, worn out, but amused, happy.   
   — But we, — she shouts, — are going ahead! Already the weather is so nice, so nice, that it is simply awful!
   And both were concealing themselves. My Belikov turned from green to white and simply froze. He stopped and looked at me…
   —Pardon me, what is this? — he asked. — Or, maybe, the sight deceives me? Is it really appropriate for schoolteachers and women to ride bicycles?
   —What is so improper here? — I said. — Let them ride  for their health.
   —Really, is that possible? — he shouted, surprised at my calmness. — What are you saying?!
   And he was so affected, that he did not feel inclined to walk further and returned home.
  Another day he rubbed his hands nervously and shook all the  time, and it was evident by his look, that he was not doing well. He also left classes, which happened for the first time in his life. And he did not eat lunch. However towards the evening he dressed up warmer, even though the weather in the courtyard was completely like summer, and he staked out towards the Kovalenkos. Varenka was not home, he only found the brother.
   —Sit down, I ask most humbly, — said Kovalenko coldly and knit his brow; his face was sleepy, he had just rested after lunch and really was not in the mood.
   Belikov sat silently for ten minutes and began:
   — I have come to you, to unburden my soul. This is very, very troubling to me. A slanderous wit drew me in a comic fashion and still another individual, close to both of us. I consider it a duty to assure you, that this has nothing to do with me…I did not provide any grounds for this mockery, — on the contrary, the whole time I behaved myself like a fully respectable person.
   Kovalenko sat down, puffing up his cheeks, and stayed silent. Belikov waited a moment and then proceeded quietly, with a sorrowful voice:
   —I have something more to tell you, too. I have been in service a long time, you are only starting work, and I consider it a duty, as an older colleague, to warn you. You ride a bicycle, and this amusement is totally inapprorpiate for a youth teacher.
   —Why? — said Kovalenko with a bass tone.
   —Does it really have to be explained more here, Mikhail Savich, is it not understood? If a teacher rides a bicycle, then what is left for the students? It is left for them only to walk on their heads! And since this is not roundly permitted, then it is also forbidden. I was horrified yesterday!  When I saw your sister, it clouded my vision. A woman or a girl on a bicycle — this is terrible!
   —What is it really you want from me?
   —I only want one thing— to warn you, Mikhail Savich. You— are a young man, you have a future ahead of you, you have to comport yourself very, very carefully, how neglectful you are in this way, oh, how neglectful!  You walk in an embroidered shirt, constantly outside with some type of books, but now here even a bicycle. Regarding, that you and your sister are riding a bicycle, the director will find out, then it will reach the trustees…what is good in it?
   — So my sister and I ride bicycles, that is nobody’s business! — said Kovalenko and turned scarlet. And anyone who will get  involved in my domestic and family affairs, him I will send straight to hell.
    Belikov got pale and stood up.
   —If you speak to me in such a tone, then I cannot proceed, — he said. — I request you never to express yourself this way in my presence about the bosses. You have to treat the authorities with respect.
   —And if I spoke something nasty about the authorities? — asked Kovalenko, looking at him with menace. — Please, leave me in peace. I am an honest man and I do not wish to converse with such gentlemen as yourself. I do not like traitors.  
   Belikov nervously began to make a fuss and started to quickly get dressed, with an expression of terror on his face. It was the first time in his life he had heard such rudeness.
   —You can say whatever you like, — he said, exiting from the entrance onto the landing of the stairs. — I only must warn you: maybe, someone has heard us, and, so that they would not misinterpret our conversation and something would not happen, I must report to mister director the contents of our conversation… in outline. I am obligated to do this.
   —Report? Go ahead, report!
    Kovalenko seized him from behind the collar and pushed, and Belikov rolled down the stairs, clattering with his galoshes. The staircase was tall, steep, but he rolled down it safely; he got up and touched himself on the nose: were his glasses in tact? But exactly at the same time when he rolled down the stairs, Varenka entered and two women with her; they stood below and looked— and for Belikov this was more terrible than anything. It would be better, it appears, to break ones neck, both legs, than to become the object of mockery; now even the whole town will know, it will reach the principal, the trustees, — oh, what if something bad happens! — they will draw a new caricature, and all this will conclude when they order him to take retirement…
     When he lifted himself up, Varenka recognized him and, looking at his laughable face, baggy coat, galoshes, not realizing what was the matter, supposing that he fell by accident himself, did not contain herself and laughed to the whole house:
   —Ha-ha-ha!
   And with this resounding, burgeoning “ha-ha-ha”,
everything was finished: both the courtship, and the worldly existence of Belikov. Already he did not hear what Varenka was saying, and saw nothing. Returning to his house, before everything else, he took the portrait off of the desk, but then laid down and no longer rose again.
   After three days Athanasios came to me and asked if there was any need to call for a doctor, so that they could do something with the gentleman. I went to Belikov's. He laid under the curtain, covered with a blanket, and was quiet; you ask him, but he only says yes or no— and not another sound. He lays down, but nearby Athanasios wanders, gloomy, scowling, and breathing deeply; and vodka emanates from him, as if from a tavern.
   One month later Belikov died. Everyone buried him, both students and seminarians. Now, when he laid in the coffin, his expression was mild, pleasant, even cheerful, as if he was happy that they finally put him in a case, from which he never will depart. Yes, he reached his ideal! And how, as if in his honor at the funeral, it was gloomy, rainy weather, and we all wore galoshes and with umbrellas. Varenka was also at the funeral and when they lowered the coffin into the grave, started crying. I noticed that Ukrainians only cry or laugh, there is not any mood in between.
      I admit that, to bury such people as Belikov, it is a great pleasure. When we were returning from the cemetery, we had humble, lenten visages, nobody wanted to show this sense of pleasure, a sense akin to that, which we felt long-long ago, still in childhood, when the adults had left the house and we ran around the yard another hour, enjoying complete freedom. Oh freedom, freedom! Even a hint, even a faint hope of its potential gives the soul wings, is it not true?
   We returned from the cemetery in a good mood. But no more than a week passed and life flowed on as previously, the same strict, wearisome, incoherent life, not roundly forbidden, but not fully permitted, either; it did not get better. And actually, we buried Belikov, but how many such men remained in the case, how many of them are there still to be!
   —That's the way it goes, — said Ivan Ivanich and smoked a pipe.
    —How many of them are there still to be! — Repeated Burkin.
   The schoolteacher exited the barn. This was a man of short stature, overweight, totally bald, with a black beard almost to the waist, and with him exited two dogs.
   — That moon, what a moon! — he said, looking up.   
   It was already midnight. To the right the whole village was visible, the long road stretched far off, for five versts. All was sunken in a quiet, deep sleep; neither movement nor sound, it is hardly believable, that it could even be so quiet in nature. When you see a village road in the moonlight with its dwellings, haystacks, sleeping willows, then the soul becomes quiet; in this peace of its own, concealed in night shadows from labors, cares, and grief, it is timid, sad, beautiful, and it seems that even the stars watch tenderly and with sweetness, and that wickedness on earth is already no more, and everything is alright. To the left from the edge of the village began the field; it was visible far off, up to the horizon, and in all the breadth of this field covered in moonlight, there was also neither a movement, nor sound.
   — That's the way it goes, — repeated Ivan Ivanich. But is it not then, that we live in the city, in crowdedness, density, write unnecessary notes, play card games— is this not the case? But then again, we spend all of life among loafers, leeches, idiots, vain women, we talk and listen to different nonsense— is this not the case? If you wish, then I will tell you a very instructive story.
   — No, it is already time to sleep, — said Burkin. — Until tomorrow! They both went to the bark and laid down on the hay. And both already covered themselves and began to fall asleep when they suddenly heard light steps; tup, tup… someone was walking not far from the barn; they will pass a little and stop, and after a minute again: tup, tup… the dogs growled.     
   — It is Maura passing by, — said Bukrin.
   The steps quieted down.  
   — To see and hear, how they lie,— said Ivan Ivanich, turning on the other side, — and they call you stupid because you tolerate this lie: you take insults, put downs, you do not dare to openly announce that you are on the side of honest, free people, and to lie to yourself, to smile, and all of this for a piece of bread, for a warm spot, for any type of rank, which is worth one kopeck,— no, to live any more this way is impossible!
   —Well, this is already part of another story, Ivan Ivanich. — Let us go to sleep.
   And in ten minutes Burkin was already sleeping. But Ivan Ivanich kept turning on his side and breathing heavily, and then got up, again went outside and, having sat down next to the door, smoked a pipe.