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Updated: June 15, 2025
"Come, reflect, Ivan Matveyitch, is there any logic in your conduct? Here you have work to do, work at a fixed time, and you go flying off after name-day parties and aunts! But do make haste and undo your wretched scarf! It's beyond endurance, really!" The man of learning dashes up to the amanuensis again and helps him to disentangle his scarf.
"Sit down, sit down," the man of learning urges him on, rubbing his hands impatiently. "You are an unsufferable person. . . . You know the work has to be finished by a certain time, and then you are so late. One is forced to scold you. Come, write, . . . Where did we stop?" Ivan Matveyitch smooths his bristling cropped hair and takes up his pen.
Seeing the man of learning he smiles with that broad, prolonged, somewhat foolish smile which is seen only on the faces of children or very good-natured people. "Ah, good evening!" he says, holding out a big wet hand. "Has your sore throat gone?" "Ivan Matveyitch," says the man of learning in a shaking voice, stepping back and clasping his hands together. "Ivan Matveyitch."
For a long time Pavel Matveyitch heard Koromyslov's nasal reciting and Smerkalov's theatrical exclamations. . . . The rehearsal was followed by a long conversation, interrupted by the shrill laughter of Olga Kirillovna. Smerkalov, as a real actor, explained the parts with aplomb and heat. . . .
Here it is frosty, everyone's in a fur coat, . . . but there you can see the grass . . . it's dry everywhere, and one can even catch tarantulas." "And what do you catch tarantulas for?" "Oh! . . . to pass the time . . ." says Ivan Matveyitch, and he sighs. "It's fun catching them.
At home there is poverty, hunger, cold, his grumbling father, scoldings, and here it is so quiet and unruffled, and interest even is taken in his tarantulas and birds. The man of learning looks at his watch and takes up a book. "So you will give me Gogol? says Ivan Matveyitch, getting up. "Yes, yes! But why are you in such a hurry, my dear boy? Sit down and tell me something . . ."
Judging from the smile which still lingered on his face Ivan Matveyitch had expected a very different reception, and so, seeing the man of learning's countenance eloquent of indignation, his oval face grows longer than ever, and he opens his mouth in amazement. "What is . . . what is it?" he asks. "And you ask that?" the man of learning clasps his hands.
"Natalya, set the samovar," cried Nadyezhda Stepanovna, with a loud rustle of her skirts. "I hear Pavel Matveyitch is come. Pavel, where are you? Good-evening, Pavel!" she said, running into the study breathlessly. "So you've come.
The examination is difficult, but with patience and hard work you could get through. Study, read more. . . . Do you read much?" "Not much, I must own . . ." says Ivan Matveyitch, lighting a cigarette. "Have you read Turgenev?" "N-no. . . ." "And Gogol?" "Gogol. H'm! . . . Gogol. . . . No, I haven't read him!" "Ivan Matveyitch! Aren't you ashamed? Aie! aie!
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