himself for having come, and with his
friend, who grew every day more talkative and more free-and-easy;
he could not succeed in attuning his thoughts to a serious and lofty
level.

"This is what I get from the real life Ivan Dmitritch talked about,"
he thought, angry at his own pettiness. "It's of no consequence,
though. . . . I shall go home, and everything will go on as
before . . . ."

It was the same thing in Petersburg too; for whole days together
he did not leave the hotel room, but lay on the sofa and only got
up to drink beer.

Mihail Averyanitch was all haste to get to Warsaw.

"My dear man, what should I go there for?" said Andrey Yefimitch
in an imploring voice. "You go alone and let me get home! I entreat
you!"

"On no account," protested Mihail Averyanitch. "It's a marvellous
town."

Andrey Yefimitch had not the strength of will to insist on his own
way, and much against his inclination went to Warsaw. There he did
not leave the hotel room, but lay on the sofa, furious with himself,
with his friend, and with the waiters, who obstinately refused to
understand Russian; while Mihail Averyanitch, healthy, hearty, and
full of spirits as usual, went about the town from morning to night,
looking for his old acquaintances. Several times he did not return
home at night. After one night spent in some unknown haunt he
returned home early in the morning, in a violently excited condition,
with a red face and tousled hair. For a long time he walked up and
down the rooms muttering something to himself, then stopped and
said:

"Honour before everything."

After walking up and down a little longer he clutched his head in
both hands and pronounced in a tragic voice: "Yes, honour before
everything! Accursed be the moment when the idea first entered my
head to visit this Babylon! My dear friend," he added, addressing
the doctor, "you may despise me, I have played and lost; lend me
five hundred roubles!"

Andrey Yefimitch counted out five hundred roubles and gave them to
his friend without a word. The latter, still crimson with shame and
anger, incoherently articulated some useless vow, put on his cap,
and went out. Returning two hours later he flopped into an easy-chair,
heaved a loud sigh, and said:

"My honour is saved. Let us go, my friend; I do not care to remain
another hour in this accursed town. Scoundrels! Austrian spies!"

By the time the friends were back in their own town it was November,
and deep