“Do you remember, Ivan Ivanitch, you told me I had a disagreeable character and that it was difficult to get on with me? But what am I to do to make my character different?”

“I don’t know, my dear boy.⁠ ⁠… I’m a feeble old man, I can’t advise you.⁠ ⁠… Yes.⁠ ⁠… But I said that to you at the time because I am fond of you and fond of your wife, and I was fond of your father.⁠ ⁠… Yes. I shall soon die, and what need have I to conceal things from you or to tell you lies? So I tell you: I am very fond of you, but I don’t respect you. No, I don’t respect you.”

He turned towards me and said in a breathless whisper:

“It’s impossible to respect you, my dear fellow. You look like a real man. You have the figure and deportment of the French President Carnot⁠—I saw a portrait of him the other day in an illustrated paper⁠ ⁠… yes.⁠ ⁠… You use lofty language, and you are clever, and you are high up in the service beyond all reach, but haven’t real soul, my dear boy⁠ ⁠… there’s no strength in it.”

“A Scythian, in fact,” I laughed. “But what about my wife? Tell me something about my wife; you know her better.”

I wanted to talk about my wife, but Sobol came in and prevented me.

“I’ve had a sleep and a wash,” he said, looking at me naively. “I’ll have a cup of tea with some rum in it and go home.”