not
wanted."

"Good heavens! how harsh you are!" I cry in horror. "How harsh you are!
Be quiet or I will go away! I don't know how to answer the harsh things
you say!"

The maid comes in and summons us to tea. At the samovar our
conversation, thank God, changes. After having had my grumble out,
I have a longing to give way to another weakness of old age,
reminiscences. I tell Katya about my past, and to my great astonishment
tell her incidents which, till then, I did not suspect of being still
preserved in my memory, and she listens to me with tenderness, with
pride, holding her breath. I am particularly fond of telling her how I
was educated in a seminary and dreamed of going to the University.

"At times I used to walk about our seminary garden..." I would tell her.
"If from some faraway tavern the wind floated sounds of a song and
the squeaking of an accordion, or a sledge with bells dashed by the
garden-fence, it was quite enough to send a rush of happiness, filling
not only my heart, but even my stomach, my legs, my arms.... I would
listen to the accordion or the bells dying away in the distance and
imagine myself a doctor, and paint pictures, one better than another.
And here, as you see, my dreams have come true. I have had more than I
dared to dream of. For thirty years I have been the favourite professor,
I have had splendid comrades, I have enjoyed fame and honour. I have
loved, married from passionate love, have had children. In fact, looking
back upon it, I see my whole life as a fine composition arranged with
talent. Now all that is left to me is not to spoil the end. For that I
must die like a man. If death is really a thing to dread, I must meet
it as a teacher, a man of science, and a citizen of a Christian country
ought to meet it, with courage and untroubled soul. But I am spoiling
the end; I am sinking, I fly to you, I beg for help, and you tell me
'Sink; that is what you ought to do.'"

But here there comes a ring at the front-door. Katya and I recognize it,
and say:

"It must be Mihail Fyodorovitch."

And a minute later my colleague, the philologist Mihail Fyodorovitch,
a tall, well-built man of fifty, clean-shaven, with thick grey hair
and black eyebrows, walks in. He is a good-natured man and an excellent
comrade. He comes of a fortunate and talented old noble family which has
played a prominent part in the history of literature and enlightenment.
He is himself intelligent, talented, and