Once in the orchard near Buchatch, on a
hot summer afternoon; once in this same room on a moonlit night. Some
strange consciousness, rising, it seemed, deep out of my sleep, told me
that this would be the last time that I would so receive him.
"May I come in?" he said.
"If you must, you must," I answered. "I am not physically strong enough
to prevent you."
He laughed. He was dripping wet. He took off his hat and overcoat, sat
down near the stove, bending forward, holding his cloak in his hands and
watching the steam rise from it.
I moved away and stood watching. I was not going to give him any
possible illusion as to my welcoming him. He turned round and looked at
me.
"Truly, Ivan Andreievitch," he said, "you are a fine host. This is a
miserable greeting."
"There can be no greetings between us ever again," I answered him. "You
are a blackguard. I hope that this is our last meeting."
"But it is," he answered, looking at me with friendliness; "that is
precisely why I've come. I've come to say good-bye."
"Good-bye?" I repeated with astonishment. This chimed in so strangely
with my premonition.
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