“To Vyazma!” he whispered, when he saw the comic man.  “To Vyazma.”

“Come, I don’t like that, old man!” said the comic man, flinging up his hands.  “You see . . . you see . . . you see, old man, that’s not the thing!  Excuse me, but . . . it’s positively stupid. . . .”

“To go to Vyazma!  My God, to Vyazma!”

“I . . .  I did not expect it of you,” the comic man muttered, utterly distracted.  “What the deuce do you want to collapse like this for?  Aie . . . aie . . . aie! . . . that’s not the thing.  A giant as tall as a watch-tower, and crying.  Is it the thing for actors to cry?”

“No wife nor children,” muttered Shtchiptsov.  “I ought not to have gone for an actor, but have stayed at Vyazma.  My life has been wasted, Semyon!  Oh, to be in Vyazma!”

“Aie . . . aie . . . aie! . . . that’s not the thing!  You see, it’s stupid . . . contemptible indeed!”

Recovering his composure and setting his feelings in order, Sigaev began comforting Shtchiptsov, telling him untruly that his comrades had decided to send him to the Crimea at their expense, and so on, but the sick man did not listen and kept muttering about Vyazma . . . .  At last, with a wave of his hand, the comic man began talking about Vyazma himself to comfort the invalid.

“It’s a fine town,” he said soothingly, “a capital town, old man!  It’s famous for its cakes.  The cakes are classical, but—­between ourselves—­h’m!—­they are a bit groggy.  For a whole week after eating them I was . . . h’m! . . .  But what is fine there is the merchants!  They are something like merchants.  When they treat you they do treat you!”

The comic man talked while Shtchiptsov listened in silence and nodded his head approvingly.

Towards evening he died.