"Nothing."
"That is nothing new. Every one knows that there is nothing in that blockhead of yours, and there never will be anything. Amen!"
In this tone he was in the habit of speaking to me and to every one else, although after the second or third time of my treating him, he began to be more gentle with me. One day he actually said with a shade of surprise:
"I look at you and I cannot make out what you are, who are you, or why you are! But whatever you are, may the devil take you!"
He behaved in an incomprehensible manner to Kleshtchkov. He listened to him with manifest enjoyment sometimes even with a benign smile, but he would not make closer acquaintance with him, and spoke about him coarsely and contemptuously.
"That barber's block! He knows how to breathe, he understands what to sing about, but for the rest, he is an ass."
"Why?"
"Like all his kind."
I should have liked to talk with him when he was sober, but when sober he only bellowed, and looked upon all the world with misty, dull eyes. I learned from some one that this permanently inebriated man had studied in the Kazan Academy, and might have become a prelate. I did not believe this. But one day when I was telling him about myself, I recalled the name of the bishop, Chrisanph. He tossed his head and said:
"Chrisanph? I know him. He was my tutor and benefactor. At Kazan, in the academy, I remember! Chrisanph means 'golden flower.' Yes, that was a true saying of Pavm Beruind. Yes, he was a flower of gold, Chrisanph!"