“‘This is my boy, he’s been like that from birth,’ said Alexandra Ivanovna with a sad smile. ‘What of it.... It’s the will of God. His name is Stepan.’
“Hearing his name the idiot cried out in a shrill, bird-like voice:
“‘Papan!’
“Alexandra Ivanovna patted him caressingly on the shoulder.
“‘Yes, yes, Stepan, Stepan.... You see, he guessed we were speaking about him and so he introduced himself.’
“‘Papan!’ cried the idiot again, turning his eyes first on his mother and then on me.
“In order to show some interest in the boy I said to him, ‘How do you do, Stepan,’ and took him by the hand. It was cold, puffy, lifeless. I felt a certain aversion, and only out of politeness went on:
“‘I suppose he’s about sixteen.’
“‘Oh, no,’ answered the mother. ‘Everybody thinks he’s about sixteen, but he’s over twenty-nine. ... His beard and moustache have never grown.’
“We talked together. Alexandra Ivanovna was a quiet, timid woman, weighed down by need and misfortune. Her sharp struggle against poverty had entirely killed all boldness of thought in her and all interest in anything outside the narrow bounds of this struggle. She complained to me of the high price of meat, and about the impudence of the cab drivers; told me of some people who had won money in a lottery, and envied the happiness of rich people. All the time of our conversation Stepan kept his eyes fixed on me. He was apparently struck by and interested in my military overcoat. Three times he put out his hand stealthily to touch the shining buttons, but drew it back each time as if he were afraid.