He was angry with himself for having wasted on travelling the thousand roubles he had saved up.  How useful that thousand roubles would have been now!  He was vexed that people would not leave him in peace.  Hobotov thought it his duty to look in on his sick colleague from time to time.  Everything about him was revolting to Andrey Yefimitch—­his well-fed face and vulgar, condescending tone, and his use of the word “colleague,” and his high top-boots; the most revolting thing was that he thought it was his duty to treat Andrey Yefimitch, and thought that he really was treating him.  On every visit he brought a bottle of bromide and rhubarb pills.

Mihail Averyanitch, too, thought it his duty to visit his friend and entertain him.  Every time he went in to Andrey Yefimitch with an affectation of ease, laughed constrainedly, and began assuring him that he was looking very well to-day, and that, thank God, he was on the highroad to recovery, and from this it might be concluded that he looked on his friend’s condition as hopeless.  He had not yet repaid his Warsaw debt, and was overwhelmed by shame; he was constrained, and so tried to laugh louder and talk more amusingly.  His anecdotes and descriptions seemed endless now, and were an agony both to Andrey Yefimitch and himself.

In his presence Andrey Yefimitch usually lay on the sofa with his face to the wall, and listened with his teeth clenched; his soul was oppressed with rankling disgust, and after every visit from his friend he felt as though this disgust had risen higher, and was mounting into his throat.

To stifle petty thoughts he made haste to reflect that he himself, and Hobotov, and Mihail Averyanitch, would all sooner or later perish without leaving any trace on the world.  If one imagined some spirit flying by the earthly globe in space in a million years he would see nothing but clay and bare rocks.  Everything—­culture and the moral law—­would pass away and not even a burdock would grow out of them.  Of what consequence was shame in the presence of a shopkeeper, of what consequence was the insignificant Hobotov or the wearisome friendship of Mihail Averyanitch?  It was all trivial and nonsensical.

But such reflections did not help him now.  Scarcely had he imagined the earthly globe in a million years, when Hobotov in his high top-boots or Mihail Averyanitch with his forced laugh would appear from behind a bare rock, and he even heard the shamefaced whisper:  “The Warsaw debt. . . .  I will repay it in a day or two, my dear fellow, without fail. . . .”

XVI

One day Mihail Averyanitch came after dinner when Andrey Yefimitch was lying on the sofa.  It so happened that Hobotov arrived at the same time with his bromide.  Andrey Yefimitch got up heavily and sat down, leaning both arms on the sofa.

“You have a much better colour to-day than you had yesterday, my dear man,” began Mihail Averyanitch.  “Yes, you look jolly.  Upon my soul, you do!”