There was no answer. Thinking that Laevsky had come in and was standing behind her chair, she sobbed like a child, and said:
'Why did you not tell me before that he was dead? I wouldn't have gone to the picnic; I shouldn't have laughed so horribly. . . . The men said horrid things to me. What a sin, what a sin! Save me, Vanya, save me. . . . I have been mad. . . . I am lost. . . .'
Laevsky heard her sobs. He felt stifled and his heart was beating violently. In his misery he got up, stood in the middle of the room, groped his way in the dark to an easy-chair by the table, and sat down.
'This is a prison . . .' he thought. 'I must get away . . . I can't bear it.'
It was too late to go and play cards; there were no restaurants in the town. He lay down again and covered his ears that he might not hear her sobbing, and he suddenly remembered that he could go to Samoylenko. To avoid going near Nadyezhda Fyodorovna, he got out of the window into the garden, climbed over the garden fence and went along the street. It was dark. A steamer, judging by its lights, a big passenger one, had just come in. He heard the clank of the anchor chain. A red light was moving rapidly from the shore in the direction of the steamer: it was the Customs boat going out to it.
'The passengers are asleep in their cabins . . .' thought Laevsky, and he envied the peace of mind of other people.
The windows in Samoylenko's house were open. Laevsky looked in at one of them, then in at another; it was dark and still in the rooms.
'Alexandr Daviditch, are you asleep?' he called. 'Alexandr Daviditch!'
He heard a cough and an uneasy shout:
'Who's there? What the devil?'
'It is I, Alexandr Daviditch; excuse me.'
A little later the door opened; there was a glow of soft light from the lamp, and Samoylenko's huge figure appeared all in white, with a white nightcap on his head.
'What now?' he asked, scratching himself and breathing hard from sleepiness. 'Wait a minute; I'll open the door directly.'
'Don't trouble; I'll get in at the window. . . .'
Laevsky climbed in at the window, and when he reached Samoylenko, seized him by the hand.
'Alexandr Daviditch,' he said in a shaking voice, 'save me! I beseech you, I implore you. Understand me! My position is agonising. If it goes on for another two days I shall strangle myself like . . . like a dog.'
'Wait a bit. . . . What are you talking about exactly?'
'Light a candle.'
'Oh . . . oh! . . .' sighed Samoylenko, lighting a candle. 'My God!
My God! . . . Why, it's past one, brother.'
'Excuse me, but I can't stay at home,' said Laevsky, feeling great comfort from the light and the presence of Samoylenko. 'You are my best, my only friend, Alexandr Daviditch. . . . You are my only hope. For God's sake, come to my rescue, whether you want to or not. I must get away from here, come what may! . . . Lend me the money!'
'Oh, my God, my God! . . .' sighed Samoylenko, scratching himself. 'I was dropping asleep and I hear the whistle of the steamer, and now you . . . Do you want much?'
'Three hundred roubles at least. I must leave her a hundred, and I need two hundred for the journey. . . . I owe you about four hundred already, but I will send it you all . . . all. . . .'
Samoylenko took hold of both his whiskers in one hand, and standing with his legs wide apart, pondered.
'Yes . . .' he muttered, musing. 'Three hundred. . . . Yes. . . .
But I haven't got so much. I shall have to borrow it from some one.'
'Borrow it, for God's sake!' said Laevsky, seeing from Samoylenko's face that he wanted to lend him the money and certainly would lend it. 'Borrow it, and I'll be sure to pay you back. I will send it from Petersburg as soon as I get there. You can set your mind at rest about that. I'll tell you what, Sasha,' he said, growing more animated; 'let us have some wine.'
'Yes . . . we can have some wine, too.'
They both went into the dining-room.
'And how about Nadyezhda Fyodorovna?' asked Samoylenko, setting three bottles and a plate of peaches on the table. 'Surely she's not remaining?'
'I will arrange it all, I will arrange it all,' said Laevsky, feeling an unexpected rush of joy. 'I will send her the money afterwards and she will join me. . . . Then we will define our relations. To your health, friend.'
'Wait a bit,' said Samoylenko. 'Drink this first. . . . This is from my vineyard. This bottle is from Navaridze's vineyard and this one is from Ahatulov's. . . . Try all three kinds and tell me candidly. . . . There seems a little acidity about mine. Eh? Don't you taste it?'
'Yes. You have comforted me, Alexandr Daviditch. Thank you. . . .
I feel better.'
'Is there any acidity?'
'Goodness only knows, I don't know. But you are a splendid, wonderful man!'
Looking at his pale, excited, good-natured face, Samoylenko remembered
Von Koren's view that men like that ought to be destroyed, and
Laevsky seemed to him a weak, defenceless child, whom any one could
injure and destroy.
'And when you go, make it up with your mother,' he said. 'It's not right.'
'Yes, yes; I certainly shall.'
They were silent for a while. When they had emptied the first bottle,
Samoylenko said:
'You ought to make it up with Von Koren too. You are both such splendid, clever fellows, and you glare at each other like wolves.'
'Yes, he's a fine, very intelligent fellow,' Laevsky assented, ready now to praise and forgive every one. 'He's a remarkable man, but it's impossible for me to get on with him. No! Our natures are too different. I'm an indolent, weak, submissive nature. Perhaps in a good minute I might hold out my hand to him, but he would turn away from me . . . with contempt.'
Laevsky took a sip of wine, walked from corner to corner and went on, standing in the middle of the room:
'I understand Von Koren very well. His is a resolute, strong, despotic nature. You have heard him continually talking of 'the expedition,' and it's not mere talk. He wants the wilderness, the moonlit night: all around in little tents, under the open sky, lie sleeping his sick and hungry Cossacks, guides, porters, doctor, priest, all exhausted with their weary marches, while only he is awake, sitting like Stanley on a camp-stool, feeling himself the monarch of the desert and the master of these men. He goes on and on and on, his men groan and die, one after another, and he goes on and on, and in the end perishes himself, but still is monarch and ruler of the desert, since the cross upon his tomb can be seen by the caravans for thirty or forty miles over the desert. I am sorry the man is not in the army. He would have made a splendid military genius. He would not have hesitated to drown his cavalry in the river
