"What nonsense it is!" he said to reassure himself. "You are a teacher, you are working in the noblest of
callings. . . . What need have you of any other world? What rubbish!"
But almost immediately he told himself with conviction that he was not a real teacher, but simply a
government employ, as commonplace and mediocre as the Czech who taught Greek. He had never had a
vocation for teaching, he knew nothing of the theory of teaching, and never had been interested in the
subject; he did not know how to treat children; he did not understand the significance of what he taught,
and perhaps did not teach the right things. Poor Ippolit Ippolititch had been frankly stupid, and all the boys,
as well as his colleagues, knew what he was and what to expect from him; but he, Nikitin, like the Czech,
knew how to conceal his stupidity and cleverly deceived every one by pretending that, thank God, his
teaching was a success. These new ideas frightened Nikitin; he rejected them, called them stupid, and
believed that all this was due to his nerves, that he would laugh at himself.
And he did, in fact, by the morning laugh at himself and call himself an old woman; but it was clear to him
that his peace of mind was lost, perhaps, for ever, and that in that little two-story house happiness was
henceforth impossible for him. He realized that the illusion had evaporated, and that a new life of unrest
and clear sight was beginning which was incompatible with peace and personal happiness.
Next day, which was Sunday, he was at the school chapel, and there met his colleagues and the director. It
seemed to him that they were entirely preoccupied with concealing their ignorance and discontent with life,
and he, too, to conceal his uneasiness, smiled affably and talked of trivialities.
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