Koch. What’s there strange about it?
Pod. Of course it’s strange. One’s always been a bachelor, and now to be a married man——
Koch. Tut, tut, tut! I wonder you’re not ashamed of yourself. No, my friend, I see I must talk to you seriously. I’ll be quite frank with you, like a father with a son. Now just look at yourself—look at yourself attentively and seriously, just as you’re looking at me now—what do you think of yourself? What are you like? You’re no better than a log; you’re a mere cypher. Tell me what you live for? Now just look in the glass and tell me what you see—nothing but a very stupid face. Well now, suppose that you’ve got children round you, not just two or three—you know, but a whole half-dozen—and every one as like you as two peas. Here you are alone, an aulic counsellor, or a head of a department, or director of some kind—what do you call yourself? But now just suppose yourself surrounded with little directorkins, and tiny rascals and small fry generally; and there they hold out their chubby little fists and tug at your whiskers; and you’ll play doggie with them: Bow—wow—wow! Now, can you imagine anything more delightful?
Pod. Ye-e-s, only you know they are such mischievous little monkeys; they’ll spoil everything, and pull all my papers about.
Koch. Oh! that doesn’t matter! But just think; they’ll all be like you—that’s the beauty of it.
Pod. After all, it really is a deucedly funny notion—a little white puff-ball of a thing—no bigger than a puppy-dog—and yet it’s like you!
Koch. Of course it’s funny, tremendously funny; there, make haste and come along!
Pod. All right; I don’t mind.
Koch. Hi! Stepàn! Come and help your master dress.
(Enter Stepàn.)