“Which of us is the madman?” he thought with vexation.  “I, who try not to disturb my fellow-passengers in any way, or this egoist who thinks that he is cleverer and more interesting than anyone here, and so will leave no one in peace?”

In Moscow Mihail Averyanitch put on a military coat without epaulettes and trousers with red braid on them.  He wore a military cap and overcoat in the street, and soldiers saluted him.  It seemed to Andrey Yefimitch, now, that his companion was a man who had flung away all that was good and kept only what was bad of all the characteristics of a country gentleman that he had once possessed.  He liked to be waited on even when it was quite unnecessary.  The matches would be lying before him on the table, and he would see them and shout to the waiter to give him the matches; he did not hesitate to appear before a maidservant in nothing but his underclothes; he used the familiar mode of address to all footmen indiscriminately, even old men, and when he was angry called them fools and blockheads.  This, Andrey Yefimitch thought, was like a gentleman, but disgusting.

First of all Mihail Averyanitch led his friend to the Iversky Madonna.  He prayed fervently, shedding tears and bowing down to the earth, and when he had finished, heaved a deep sigh and said: 

“Even though one does not believe it makes one somehow easier when one prays a little.  Kiss the ikon, my dear fellow.”

Andrey Yefimitch was embarrassed and he kissed the image, while Mihail Averyanitch pursed up his lips and prayed in a whisper, and again tears came into his eyes.  Then they went to the Kremlin and looked there at the Tsar-cannon and the Tsar-bell, and even touched them with their fingers, admired the view over the river, visited St. Saviour’s and the Rumyantsev museum.

They dined at Tyestov’s.  Mihail Averyanitch looked a long time at the menu, stroking his whiskers, and said in the tone of a gourmand accustomed to dine in restaurants: 

“We shall see what you give us to eat to-day, angel!”

XIV

The doctor walked about, looked at things, ate and drank, but he had all the while one feeling:  annoyance with Mihail Averyanitch.  He longed to have a rest from his friend, to get away from him, to hide himself, while the friend thought it was his duty not to let the doctor move a step away from him, and to provide him with as many distractions as possible.  When there was nothing to look at he entertained him with conversation.  For two days Andrey Yefimitch endured it, but on the third he announced to his friend that he was ill and wanted to stay at home for the whole day; his friend replied that in that case he would stay too—­that really he needed rest, for he was run off his legs already.  Andrey Yefimitch lay on the sofa, with his face to the back, and clenching his teeth, listened to his friend, who assured him