he always read the last pages first.  He would always go on reading for several hours without a break and without being weary.  He did not read as rapidly and impulsively as Ivan Dmitritch had done in the past, but slowly and with concentration, often pausing over a passage which he liked or did not find intelligible.  Near the books there always stood a decanter of vodka, and a salted cucumber or a pickled apple lay beside it, not on a plate, but on the baize table-cloth.  Every half-hour he would pour himself out a glass of vodka and drink it without taking his eyes off the book.  Then without looking at it he would feel for the cucumber and bite off a bit.

At three o’clock he would go cautiously to the kitchen door; cough, and say, “Daryushka, what about dinner? . .”

After his dinner—­a rather poor and untidily served one—­Andrey Yefimitch would walk up and down his rooms with his arms folded, thinking.  The clock would strike four, then five, and still he would be walking up and down thinking.  Occasionally the kitchen door would creak, and the red and sleepy face of Daryushka would appear.

“Andrey Yefimitch, isn’t it time for you to have your beer?” she would ask anxiously.

“No, it’s not time yet . . .” he would answer.  “I’ll wait a little . . . .  I’ll wait a little. . .”

Towards the evening the postmaster, Mihail Averyanitch, the only man in town whose society did not bore Andrey Yefimitch, would come in.  Mihail Averyanitch had once been a very rich landowner, and had served in the calvary, but had come to ruin, and was forced by poverty to take a job in the post office late in life.  He had a hale and hearty appearance, luxuriant grey whiskers, the manners of a well-bred man, and a loud, pleasant voice.  He was good-natured and emotional, but hot-tempered.  When anyone in the post office made a protest, expressed disagreement, or even began to argue, Mihail Averyanitch would turn crimson, shake all over, and shout in a voice of thunder, “Hold your tongue!” so that the post office had long enjoyed the reputation of an institution which it was terrible to visit.  Mihail Averyanitch liked and respected Andrey Yefimitch for his culture and the loftiness of his soul; he treated the other inhabitants of the town superciliously, as though they were his subordinates.

“Here I am,” he would say, going in to Andrey Yefimitch.  “Good evening, my dear fellow!  I’ll be bound, you are getting sick of me, aren’t you?”

“On the contrary, I am delighted,” said the doctor.  “I am always glad to see you.”

The friends would sit on the sofa in the study and for some time would smoke in silence.

“Daryushka, what about the beer?” Andrey Yefimitch would say.

They would drink their first bottle still in silence, the doctor brooding and Mihail Averyanitch with a gay and animated face, like a man who has something very interesting to tell.  The doctor was always the one to begin the conversation.