‘‘There, to the north. To the pines, to the mushrooms, to people, to ideas... I’d give half my life to be somewhere in the province of Moscow or Tula right now, swimming in a little river, getting chilled, you know, then wandering around for a good three hours with the worst of students, chattering away... And the smell of hay! Remember? And in the evenings, when you stroll in the garden, the sounds of a piano come from the house, you hear a train going by...’
Laevsky laughed with pleasure, tears welled up in his eyes, and, to conceal them, he reached to the next table for matches without getting up.
‘‘And it’s eighteen years since I’ve been to Russia,’’ said Samoilenko. ‘‘I’ve forgotten how it is there. In my opinion, there’s no place in the world more magnificent than the Caucasus.’’
‘‘Vereshchagin6 has a painting: two men condemned to death languish at the bottom of a deep well. Your magnificent Caucasus looks to me exactly like that well. If I were offered one of two things, to be a chimney sweep in Petersburg or a prince here, I’d take the post of chimney sweep.’’
Laevsky fell to thinking. Looking at his bent body, at his eyes fixed on one spot, at his pale, sweaty face and sunken temples, his bitten nails, and the slipper run down at the heel, revealing a poorly darned sock, Samoilenko was filled with pity and, probably because Laevsky reminded him of a helpless child, asked:
‘‘Is your mother living?’’
‘‘Yes, but she and I have parted ways. She couldn’t forgive me this liaison.’’
Samoilenko liked his friend. He saw in Laevsky a good fellow, a student, an easygoing man with whom one could have a drink and a laugh and a heart-to-heart talk. What he understood in him, he greatly disliked. Laevsky drank a great deal and not at the right time, played cards, despised his job, lived beyond his means, often used indecent expressions in conversation, went about in slippers, and quarreled with Nadezhda Fyodorovna in front of strangers—and that Samoilenko did not like. But the fact that Laevsky had once been a philology student, now subscribed to two thick journals, often spoke so cleverly that only a few people understood him, lived with an intelligent woman—all this Samoilenko did not understand, and he liked that, and he considered Laevsky above him, and respected him.
‘‘One more detail,’’ said Laevsky, tossing his head. ‘‘Only this is between you and me. So far I’ve kept it from Nadezhda Fyodorovna, don’t blurt it out in front of her... Two days ago I received a letter saying that her husband has died of a softening of the brain.’’
‘‘God rest his soul...’ sighed Samoilenko. ‘‘Why are you keeping it from her?’’
‘‘To show her this letter would mean: let’s kindly go to church and get married. But we have to clarify our relations first. Once she’s convinced that we can’t go on living together, I’ll show her the letter. It will be safe then.’’
‘‘You know what, Vanya?’’ said Samoilenko, and his face suddenly assumed a sad and pleading expression, as if he was about to ask for something very sweet and was afraid he would be refused. ‘‘Marry her, dear heart!’’
‘‘What for?’’
‘‘Fulfill your duty before that wonderful woman! Her husband has died, and so Providence itself is showing you what to do!’’
‘‘But understand, you odd fellow, that it’s impossible. To marry without love is as mean and unworthy of a human being as to serve a liturgy without believing.’’
‘‘But it’s your duty!’’
‘‘Why is it my duty?’’ Laevsky asked with annoyance.
‘‘Because you took her away from her husband and assumed responsibility for her.’’
‘‘But I’m telling you in plain Russian: I don’t love her!’’
‘‘Well, so there’s no love, then respect her, indulge her...’
‘‘Respect her, indulge her...’ Laevsky parroted. ‘‘As if she’s a mother superior... You’re a poor psychologist and physiologist if you think that, living with a woman, you can get by with nothing but deference and respect. A woman needs the bedroom first of all.’’
‘‘Vanya, Vanya...’ Samoilenko was embarrassed.
‘‘You’re an old little boy, a theoretician, while I’m a young old man and a practician, and we’ll never understand each other. Better let’s stop this conversation. Mustafa!’’ Laevsky called out to the waiter. ‘‘How much do we owe you?’’
‘‘No, no ...’ the doctor was alarmed, seizing Laevsky by the hand. ‘‘I’ll pay it. I did the ordering. Put it on my account!’’ he called to Mustafa.
The friends got up and silently walked along the embankment. At the entrance to the boulevard they stopped and shook hands on parting.
‘‘You’re much too spoiled, gentlemen!’’ sighed Samoilenko. ‘‘Fate has sent you a young woman, beautiful, educated—and you don’t want her, but if God just gave me some lopsided old woman, provided she was gentle and kind, how pleased I’d be! I’d live with her in my little vineyard and...’
Samoilenko caught himself and said:
‘‘And the old witch would serve the samovar there.’’
Having taken leave of Laevsky, he walked down the boulevard. When, corpulent, majestic, a stern expression on his face, in his snow-white tunic and perfectly polished boots, his chest thrust out, adorned by a Vladimir with a bow,7 he went down the boulevard, for that time he liked himself very much, and it seemed to him that the whole world looked at him with pleasure. Not turning his head, he kept glancing from side to side and found that the boulevard was perfectly well organized, that the young cypresses, eucalyptuses, and scrawny, unattractive palm trees were very beautiful and would, with time, afford ample shade; that the Circassians were an honest and hospitable people. ‘‘Strange that Laevsky doesn’t like the Caucasus,’’ he thought, ‘‘very strange.’’ Five soldiers with rifles passed by and saluted him. On the sidewalk to the right side of the boulevard walked the wife of an official with her schoolboy son.
‘‘Good morning, Marya Konstantinovna!’’ Samoilenko called out to her, smiling pleasantly. ‘‘Have you been for a
