A third ring. Enters a young doctor in a new black suit, gold-rimmed spectacles and the inevitable white necktie. He introduces himself. I ask him to take a seat and inquire his business. The young priest of science begins to tell me, not without agitation, that he passed his doctor’s examination this year, and now has only to write his dissertation. He would like to work with me, under my guidance; and I would do him a great kindness if I would suggest a subject for his dissertation. “I should be delighted to be of use to you, mon cher confrère,” I say. “But first of all, let us come to an agreement as to what is a dissertation. Generally we understand by this, work produced as the result of an independent creative power. Isn’t that so? But a work written on another’s subject, under another’s guidance, has a different name.” The aspirant is silent. I fire up and jump out of my seat. “Why do you all come to me? I can’t understand,” I cry out angrily. “Do I keep a shop? I don’t sell theses across the counter. For the one thousandth time I ask you all to leave me alone. Forgive my rudeness, but I’ve got tired of it at last!” The aspirant is silent. Only, a tinge of colour shows on his cheek. His face expresses his profound respect for my famous name and my erudition, but I see in his eyes that he despises my voice, my pitiable figure, my nervous gestures. When I am angry I seem to him a very queer fellow. “I do not keep a shop,” I storm. “It’s an amazing business! Why don’t you want to be independent? Why do you find freedom so objectionable?” I say a great deal, but he is silent. At last by degrees I grow calm, and, of course, surrender. The aspirant will receive a valueless subject from me, will write under my observation a needless thesis, will pass his tedious disputation _cum laude_ and will get a useless and learned degree. The rings follow in endless succession, but here I confine myself to four. The fourth ring sounds, and I hear the familiar steps, the rustling dress, the dear voice. Eighteen years ago my dear friend, the oculist, died and left behind him a seven year old daughter, Katy, and sixty thousand roubles. By his will he made me guardian. Katy lived in my family till she was ten. Afterwards she was sent to College and lived with me only in her holidays in the summer months. I had no time to attend to her education. I watched only by fits and starts; so that I can say very little about her childhood.