“I’ve come to return your call, Ivan Ivanitch,” I said untruthfully.  “Don’t be hard on me; I’m a townsman, conventional; I do keep count of calls.”

“I am delighted, my dear fellow.  I am an old man; I like respect....  Yes.”

From his voice and his blissfully smiling face, I could see that he was greatly flattered by my visit.  Two peasant women helped me off with my coat in the entry, and a peasant in a red shirt hung it on a hook, and when Ivan Ivanitch and I went into his little study, two barefooted little girls were sitting on the floor looking at a picture-book; when they saw us they jumped up and ran away, and a tall, thin old woman in spectacles came in at once, bowed gravely to me, and picking up a pillow from the sofa and a picture-book from the floor, went away.  From the adjoining rooms we heard incessant whispering and the patter of bare feet.

“I am expecting the doctor to dinner,” said Ivan Ivanitch.  “He promised to come from the relief centre.  Yes.  He dines with me every Wednesday, God bless him.”  He craned towards me and kissed me on the neck.  “You have come, my dear fellow, so you are not vexed,” he whispered, sniffing.  “Don’t be vexed, my dear creature.  Yes.  Perhaps it is annoying, but don’t be cross.  My only prayer to God before I die is to live in peace and harmony with all in the true way.  Yes.”

“Forgive me, Ivan Ivanitch, I will put my feet on a chair,” I said, feeling that I was so exhausted I could not be myself; I sat further back on the sofa and put up my feet on an arm-chair.  My face was burning from the snow and the wind, and I felt as though my whole body were basking in the warmth and growing weaker from it.

“It’s very nice here,” I went on—­“warm, soft, snug... and goose-feather pens,” I laughed, looking at the writing-table; “sand instead of blotting-paper.”

“Eh?  Yes... yes....  The writing-table and the mahogany cupboard here were made for my father by a self-taught cabinet-maker—­Glyeb Butyga, a serf of General Zhukov’s.  Yes... a great artist in his own way.”

Listlessly and in the tone of a man dropping asleep, he began telling me about cabinet-maker Butyga.  I listened.  Then Ivan Ivanitch went into the next room to show me a polisander wood chest of drawers remarkable for its beauty and cheapness.  He tapped the chest with his fingers, then called my attention to a stove of patterned tiles, such as one never sees now.  He tapped the stove, too, with his fingers.  There was an atmosphere of good-natured simplicity and well-fed abundance about the chest of drawers, the tiled stove, the low chairs, the pictures embroidered in wool and silk on canvas in solid, ugly frames.  When one remembers that all those objects were standing in the same places and precisely in the same order when I was a little child, and used to come here to name-day parties with my mother, it is simply unbelievable that they could ever cease to exist.