over the road there marched slowly a pair of grey felt top boots—empty.
He raised his shaggy, were-wolf eyebrows, looked at me intently and thought for a while.
"That's terrible. Did you really dream that, you didn't invent it? But there's something bookish in it also."
And suddenly he got angry, and said, irritably, sternly, rapping his knee with his finger: "But you're not a drinking man? It's unlikely that you ever drank much. And yet there's something drunken in these dreams. There was a German writer, Hoffmann, who dreamt that card tables ran about the street, and all that sort of thing, but then he was a drunkard—a 'calaholic,' as our literate coachmen say. Empty boots marching—that's really terrible. Even if you did invent it, it's good. Terrible."
Suddenly he gave a broad smile, so that even his cheek bones beamed.
"And imagine this: suddenly, in the Tverskaya street, there runs a card table with its curved legs, its boards clap, clap, raising a chalky dust, and you can even still see the numbers on the green cloth—excise clerks playing whist on it for three days and nights on end—the table could not bear it any longer and ran away."
He laughed, and then, probably noticing that I was a little hurt by his distrust of me:
"Are you hurt because I thought your dreams bookish? Don't be annoyed; sometimes, I know,
35
