two candles, and he felt somewhat ashamed and restless because of the bright light, and he looked only at the side of the face he was shaving.
He shaved his cheek; then he thought awhile, lathered his moustaches, and shaved them off. He looked at his face again. To-morrow people would laugh at that face.
Pressing his razor resolutely, Mitrofan threw his head back and carefully passed the dull side of the knife across his neck.
"It would be good to kill myself," he thought, "but how could I?"
"Coward! Scoundrel!" he said aloud, indifferently.
To-morrow people would laugh at him—his comrades, his pupils. And his wife would also laugh at him.
He longed to be sunk in despair, to cry, to strike the mirror, to do something, but his soul was empty and dead, and he was sleepy.
"Perhaps that is due to the fact that I was out long in the fresh air," he thought, yawning.
He removed his shaving cup, put out the light of the lamp and candles, and scraping with his slippers he went to his bedroom. He soon fell asleep, having pushed into the pillow his shaven face, at which everybody would laugh to-morrow: his friends, his wife—and he himself.
THE END
