Visitors do not come to me every day now.  I will only mention the visits of Nikolay and Pyotr Ignatyevitch.  Nikolay usually comes to me on holidays, with some pretext of business, though really to see me.  He arrives very much exhilarated, a thing which never occurs to him in the winter.

“What have you to tell me?” I ask, going out to him in the hall.

“Your Excellency!” he says, pressing his hand to his heart and looking at me with the ecstasy of a lover—­“your Excellency!  God be my witness!  Strike me dead on the spot! Gaudeamus egitur juventus!”

And he greedily kisses me on the shoulder, on the sleeve, and on the buttons.

“Is everything going well?” I ask him.

“Your Excellency!  So help me God!...”

He persists in grovelling before me for no sort of reason, and soon bores me, so I send him away to the kitchen, where they give him dinner.

Pyotr Ignatyevitch comes to see me on holidays, too, with the special object of seeing me and sharing his thoughts with me.  He usually sits down near my table, modest, neat, and reasonable, and does not venture to cross his legs or put his elbows on the table.  All the time, in a soft, even, little voice, in rounded bookish phrases, he tells me various, to his mind, very interesting and piquant items of news which he has read in the magazines and journals.  They are all alike and may be reduced to this type:  “A Frenchman has made a discovery; some one else, a German, has denounced him, proving that the discovery was made in 1870 by some American; while a third person, also a German, trumps them both by proving they both had made fools of themselves, mistaking bubbles of air for dark pigment under the microscope.”  Even when he wants to amuse me, Pyotr Ignatyevitch tells me things in the same lengthy, circumstantial manner as though he were defending a thesis, enumerating in detail the literary sources from which he is deriving his narrative, doing his utmost to be accurate as to the date and number of the journals and the name of every one concerned, invariably mentioning it in full—­Jean Jacques Petit, never simply Petit.  Sometimes he stays to dinner with us, and then during the whole of dinner-time he goes on telling me the same sort of piquant anecdotes, reducing every one at table to a state of dejected boredom.  If Gnekker and Liza begin talking before him of fugues and counterpoint, Brahms and Bach, he drops his eyes modestly, and is overcome with embarrassment; he is ashamed that such trivial subjects should be discussed before such serious people as him and me.

In my present state of mind five minutes of him is enough to sicken me as though I had been seeing and hearing him for an eternity.  I hate the poor fellow.  His soft, smooth voice and bookish language exhaust me, and his stories stupefy me....  He cherishes the best of feelings for me, and talks to me simply in order to give me pleasure, and I repay him by looking at him as though I wanted to hypnotize him, and think, “Go, go, go!...”  But he is not amenable to thought-suggestion, and sits on and on and on....