While he is with me I can never shake off the thought, “It’s possible when I die he will be appointed to succeed me,” and my poor lecture-hall presents itself to me as an oasis in which the spring is died up; and I am ungracious, silent, and surly with Pyotr Ignatyevitch, as though he were to blame for such thoughts, and not I myself.  When he begins, as usual, praising up the German savants, instead of making fun of him good-humouredly, as I used to do, I mutter sullenly: 

“Asses, your Germans!...”

That is like the late Professor Nikita Krylov, who once, when he was bathing with Pirogov at Revel and vexed at the water’s being very cold, burst out with, “Scoundrels, these Germans!” I behave badly with Pyotr Ignatyevitch, and only when he is going away, and from the window I catch a glimpse of his grey hat behind the garden-fence, I want to call out and say, “Forgive me, my dear fellow!”

Dinner is even drearier than in the winter.  Gnekker, whom now I hate and despise, dines with us almost every day.  I used to endure his presence in silence, now I aim biting remarks at him which make my wife and daughter blush.  Carried away by evil feeling, I often say things that are simply stupid, and I don’t know why I say them.  So on one occasion it happened that I stared a long time at Gnekker, and, a propos of nothing, I fired off: 

     “An eagle may perchance swoop down below a cock,
     But never will the fowl soar upwards to the clouds...”

And the most vexatious thing is that the fowl Gnekker shows himself much cleverer than the eagle professor.  Knowing that my wife and daughter are on his side, he takes up the line of meeting my gibes with condescending silence, as though to say: 

“The old chap is in his dotage; what’s the use of talking to him?”

Or he makes fun of me good-naturedly.  It is wonderful how petty a man may become!  I am capable of dreaming all dinner-time of how Gnekker will turn out to be an adventurer, how my wife and Liza will come to see their mistake, and how I will taunt them—­and such absurd thoughts at the time when I am standing with one foot in the grave!

There are now, too, misunderstandings of which in the old days I had no idea except from hearsay.  Though I am ashamed of it, I will describe one that occurred the other day after dinner.

I was sitting in my room smoking a pipe; my wife came in as usual, sat down, and began saying what a good thing it would be for me to go to Harkov now while it is warm and I have free time, and there find out what sort of person our Gnekker is.

“Very good; I will go,” I assented.

My wife, pleased with me, got up and was going to the door, but turned back and said: 

“By the way, I have another favour to ask of you.  I know you will be angry, but it is my duty to warn you....  Forgive my saying it, Nikolay Stepanovitch, but all our neighbours and acquaintances have begun talking about your being so often at Katya’s.  She is clever and well-educated; I don’t deny that her company may be agreeable; but at your age and with your social position it seems strange that you should find pleasure in her society....  Besides, she has such a reputation that...”