with heat that sooner or later France would certainly thrash Germany, that there were a great many scoundrels in Moscow, and that it was impossible to judge of a horse’s quality by its outward appearance.  The doctor began to have a buzzing in his ears and palpitations of the heart, but out of delicacy could not bring himself to beg his friend to go away or hold his tongue.  Fortunately Mihail Averyanitch grew weary of sitting in the hotel room, and after dinner he went out for a walk.

As soon as he was alone Andrey Yefimitch abandoned himself to a feeling of relief.  How pleasant to lie motionless on the sofa and to know that one is alone in the room!  Real happiness is impossible without solitude.  The fallen angel betrayed God probably because he longed for solitude, of which the angels know nothing.  Andrey Yefimitch wanted to think about what he had seen and heard during the last few days, but he could not get Mihail Averyanitch out of his head.

“Why, he has taken a holiday and come with me out of friendship, out of generosity,” thought the doctor with vexation; “nothing could be worse than this friendly supervision.  I suppose he is good-natured and generous and a lively fellow, but he is a bore.  An insufferable bore.  In the same way there are people who never say anything but what is clever and good, yet one feels that they are dull-witted people.”

For the following days Andrey Yefimitch declared himself ill and would not leave the hotel room; he lay with his face to the back of the sofa, and suffered agonies of weariness when his friend entertained him with conversation, or rested when his friend was absent.  He was vexed with 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: