a the cabinet maker; on them lay high, soft,
white beds, probably made by the old woman in spectacles. On one of them
Sobol, without his coat and boots, already lay asleep with his face to
the back of the sofa; another bed was awaiting me. I took off my coat
and boots, and, overcome by fatigue, by the spirit of Butyga which
hovered over the quiet lounge-room, and by the light, caressing snore of
Sobol, I lay down submissively.

And at once I began dreaming of my wife, of her room, of the
station-master with his face full of hatred, the heaps of snow, a fire
in the theatre. I dreamed of the peasants who had stolen twenty sacks of
rye out of my barn.

"Anyway, it's a good thing the magistrate let them go," I said.

I woke up at the sound of my own voice, looked for a moment in
perplexity at Sobol's broad back, at the buckles of his waistcoat, at
his thick heels, then lay down again and fell asleep.

When I woke up the second time it was quite dark. Sobol was asleep.
There was peace in my heart, and I longed to make haste home. I dressed
and went out of the lounge-room. Ivan Ivanitch was sitting in a big
arm-chair in his study, absolutely motionless, staring at a fixed point,
and it was evident that he had been in the same state of petrifaction
all the while I had been asleep.

"Good!" I said, yawning. "I feel as though I had woken up after breaking
the fast at Easter. I shall often come and see you now. Tell me, did my
wife ever dine here?"

"So-ome-ti-mes... sometimes,"' muttered Ivan Ivanitch, making an effort
to stir. "She dined here last Saturday. Yes.... She likes me."

After a silence I said:

"Do you remember, Ivan Ivanitch, you told me I had a disagreeable
character and that it was difficult to get on with me? But what am I to
do to make my character different?"

"I don't know, my dear boy.... I'm a feeble old man, I can't advise
you.... Yes.... But I said that to you at the time because I am fond
of you and fond of your wife, and I was fond of your father.... Yes. I
shall soon die, and what need have I to conceal things from you or to
tell you lies? So I tell you: I am very fond of you, but I don't respect
you. No, I don't respect you."

He turned towards me and said in a breathless whisper:

"It's impossible to respect you, my dear fellow. You look like a
real man. You have the figure and deportment of the French President
Carnot--I saw a portrait of him the other day in an illustrated paper...
yes