! . . ." says the man of learning. "Well, haven't you found a
job yet, Ivan Matveyitch?"

"No. And how is one to find one? I am thinking, you know, of
volunteering for the army. But my father advises my going into a
chemist's."

"H'm! . . . But it would be better for you to go into the university.
The examination is difficult, but with patience and hard work you
could get through. Study, read more. . . . Do you read much?"

"Not much, I must own . . ." says Ivan Matveyitch, lighting a
cigarette.

"Have you read Turgenev?"

"N-no. . . ."

"And Gogol?"

"Gogol. H'm! . . . Gogol. . . . No, I haven't read him!"

"Ivan Matveyitch! Aren't you ashamed? Aie! aie! You are such a nice
fellow, so much that is original in you . . . you haven't even read
Gogol! You must read him! I will give you his works! It's essential
to read him! We shall quarrel if you don't!"

Again a silence follows. The man of learning meditates, half reclining
on a soft lounge, and Ivan Matveyitch, leaving his collar in peace,
concentrates his whole attention on his boots. He has not till then
noticed that two big puddles have been made by the snow melting off
his boots on the floor. He is ashamed.

"I can't get on to-day . . ." mutters the man of learning. "I suppose
you are fond of catching birds, too, Ivan Matveyitch?"

"That's in autumn, . . . I don't catch them here, but there at home
I always did."

"To be sure . . . very good. But we must write, though."

The man of learning gets up resolutely and begins dictating, but
after ten lines sits down on the lounge again.

"No. . . . Perhaps we had better put it off till to-morrow morning,"
he says. "Come to-morrow morning, only come early, at nine o'clock.
God preserve you from being late!"

Ivan Matveyitch lays down his pen, gets up from the table and sits
in another chair. Five minutes pass in silence, and he begins to
feel it is time for him to go, that he is in the way; but in the
man of learning's study it is so snug and light and warm, and the
impression of the nice rusks and sweet tea is still so fresh that
there is a pang at his heart at the mere thought of home. At home
there is poverty, hunger, cold, his grumbling father, scoldings,
and here it is so quiet and unruffled, and interest even is taken
in his tarantulas and birds.

The man of learning looks at his watch and takes up a book.

"So you will give me Gogol?' says Ivan Matveyitch, getting up.

"Yes, yes! But why are