the fast at Easter. I shall often come and see you now. Tell me, did my
wife ever dine here?"

"So-ome-ti-mes... sometimes,"' muttered Ivan Ivanitch, making an effort
to stir. "She dined here last Saturday. Yes.... She likes me."

After a silence I said:

"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."