“In the province of Oryol. Till I went into the army I lived with my mother, in my stepfather’s house; my mother was the head of the house, and people looked up to her, and while she lived I was cared for. But while I was in the army I got a letter telling me my mother was dead.⁠ ⁠… And now I don’t seem to care to go home. It’s not my own father, so it’s not like my own home.”

“Then your father is dead?”

“I don’t know. I am illegitimate.”

At that moment Auntie Dasha appeared at the window and said:

“ Il ne faut pas parler aux gens. ⁠ ⁠… Go into the kitchen, my good man. You can tell your story there,” she said to the soldier.

Neshtchapov’s face that the question had no interest for him whatever, and that for long, long years he had read nothing and cared to read nothing. Serious and expressionless, like a badly painted portrait, forever in his white waistcoat, he was silent and incomprehensible as before; but the ladies, young and old, thought him interesting and were enthusiastic over his manners. They envied Vera, who appeared to attract him very much. And Vera always came away from the visits with a feeling of vexation, vowing inwardly to remain at home; but the day passed, the evening came, and she hurried off to the works again, and it was like that almost all the winter.