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not violent, are you? '
'Yesterday in a restaurant I clouted a fellow across the snout,' the
poet confessed manfully.
'What for? ' asked the visitor disapprovingly.
'For no reason at all, I must admit,' replied Ivan, embarrassed.
'Disgraceful,' said the visitor reproachfully and added:
'And I don't care for that _expression_ of yours--clouted him across the
snout. . . . People have faces, not snouts. So I suppose you mean you
punched him in the face. . . . No, you must give up doing that sort of
thing.'
After this reprimand the visitor enquired :
'What's your job? '
'I'm a poet,' admitted Ivan with slight unwillingness.
This annoyed the man.
'Just my bad luck! ' he exclaimed, but immediately regretted it,
apologised and asked : ' What's your name? '
'Bezdomny.'
'Oh . . .' said the man frowning.
'What, don't you like my poetry? ' asked Ivan with curiosity.
'No, I don't.'
'Have you read any of it? '
'I've never read any of your poetry! ' said the visitor tetchily.
'Then how can you say that? '
'Why shouldn't I? ' retorted the visitor. ' I've read plenty of other
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