“Do you wish to know about the town or in general?”

“Well, tell me first about the town, and then in general.”

“Well, in the town it is appallingly dull. . . .  There’s no one to say a word to, no one to listen to.  There are no new people.  A young doctor called Hobotov has come here recently.”

“He had come in my time.  Well, he is a low cad, isn’t he?”

“Yes, he is a man of no culture.  It’s strange, you know. . . .  Judging by every sign, there is no intellectual stagnation in our capital cities; there is a movement—­so there must be real people there too; but for some reason they always send us such men as I would rather not see.  It’s an unlucky town!”

“Yes, it is an unlucky town,” sighed Ivan Dmitritch, and he laughed.  “And how are things in general?  What are they writing in the papers and reviews?”

It was by now dark in the ward.  The doctor got up, and, standing, began to describe what was being written abroad and in Russia, and the tendency of thought that could be noticed now.  Ivan Dmitritch listened attentively and put questions, but suddenly, as though recalling something terrible, clutched at his head and lay down on the bed with his back to the doctor.

“What’s the matter?” asked Andrey Yefimitch.

“You will not hear another word from me,” said Ivan Dmitritch rudely.  “Leave me alone.”

“Why so?”

“I tell you, leave me alone.  Why the devil do you persist?”

Andrey Yefimitch shrugged his shoulders, heaved a sigh, and went out.  As he crossed the entry he said:  “You might clear up here, Nikita . . . there’s an awfully stuffy smell.”

“Certainly, your honour.”

“What an agreeable young man!” thought Andrey Yefimitch, going back to his flat.  “In all the years I have been living here I do believe he is the first I have met with whom one can talk.  He is capable of reasoning and is interested in just the right things.”

While he was reading, and afterwards, while he was going to bed, he kept thinking about Ivan Dmitritch, and when he woke next morning he remembered that he had the day before made the acquaintance of an intelligent and interesting man, and determined to visit him again as soon as possible.

X

Ivan Dmitritch was lying in the same position as on the previous day, with his head clutched in both hands and his legs drawn up.  His face was not visible.

“Good-day, my friend,” said Andrey Yefimitch.  “You are not asleep, are you?”

“In the first place, I am not your friend,” Ivan Dmitritch articulated into the pillow; “and in the second, your efforts are useless; you will not get one word out of me.”

“Strange,” muttered Andrey Yefimitch in confusion.  “Yesterday we talked peacefully, but suddenly for some reason you took offence and broke off all at once. . . .  Probably I expressed myself awkwardly, or perhaps gave utterance to some idea which did not fit in with your convictions. . . .”