“Come, come, come, come!” said Sobol, trying to soothe me.  “Come!  I have had a drop, that is why I said it.  My tongue is my enemy.  Come,” he sighed, “we have eaten and drunk wine, and now for a nap.”

He got up from the table, kissed Ivan Ivanitch on the head, and staggering from repletion, went out of the dining-room.  Ivan Ivanitch and I smoked in silence.

“I don’t sleep after dinner, my dear,” said Ivan Ivanitch, “but you have a rest in the lounge-room.”

I agreed.  In the half-dark and warmly heated room they called the lounge-room, there stood against the walls long, wide sofas, solid and heavy, the work of Butyga 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: