“Nothing special, but I had the impression that yesterday, and especially this morning, you sincerely regretted the late Natalia Vassilievna.”
“And who told you that I don’t sincerely regret her now as well?” Pavel Pavlovich again pounced, as if he had again been jerked by a spring.
“That’s not what I mean; but you must agree that you could be mistaken about Stepan Mikhailovich, and it’s a serious matter.”
Pavel Pavlovich smiled slyly and winked.
“And you’d like so much to find out how I myself found out about Stepan Mikhailovich!”
Velchaninov turned red:
“I repeat to you again that it makes no difference to me.” And in rage he thought, “Why don’t I throw him out right now, along with his bottle?” and turned redder still.
“Never mind, sir!” Pavel Pavlovich said, as if encouraging him, and poured himself another glass.
“I’ll explain to you presently how I found out ‘everything,’ sir, and thereby satisfy your fiery wishes… for you’re a fiery man, Alexei Ivanovich, a terribly fiery man, sir! heh, heh! only give me a little cigarette, because since the month of March I…”
“Here’s your cigarette.”
“I’ve become dissolute since the month of March, Alexei Ivanovich, and this is how it happened, sir, lend me your ear. Consumption, as you know yourself, my dearest friend,” he was getting more and more familiar, “is a curious disease, sir. Quite often a consumptive person dies almost without suspecting he might die the next day, sir. I tell you that just five hours before, Natalia Vassilievna was planning to go in two weeks to visit her aunt thirty miles away. Besides, you’re probably familiar with the habit, or, better to say, the trait common to many ladies, and perhaps gentlemen as well, sir, of preserving their old trash, such as love correspondence, sir. The surest thing would be the stove, right, sir? No, every scrap of paper is carefully preserved in their little boxes and hold-alls; it’s even numbered by years, by dates and categories. Whether it’s very comforting or something—I don’t know, sir; but it must be for the sake of pleasant memories. Since she was planning, five hours before the end, to go to her aunt’s for the celebration, Natalia Vassilievna naturally had no thought of death, even to the very last hour, sir, and kept waiting for Koch. And so it happened, sir, that Natalia Vassilievna died, and a little ebony box inlaid with mother- of-pearl and silver was left in her desk. Such a pretty little box, with a key, sir, an heirloom, handed down from her grandmother. Well, sir—it was in this box that everything was revealed—that is, everything, sir, without any exception, by days and years, over two whole decades. And since Stepan Mikhailovich had a decided inclination for literature, having once even sent a passionate story to a magazine, there turned out to be nearly a hundred numbers of his works in the little chest—true, it was for five years, sir. Some numbers were even marked in Natalia Vassilievna’s own hand. A pleasure for a husband, wouldn’t you think, sir?”
Velchaninov quickly reflected and remembered that he had never written even one letter, even one note, to Natalia Vassilievna. And though he had written two letters from Petersburg, they had been addressed to both spouses, as had been arranged. And to Natalia Vassilievna’s last letter, informing him of his dismissal, he had never replied.
After finishing his story, Pavel Pavlovich was silent for a whole minute, smiling importunately and expectantly.
“Why do you answer nothing to my little question, sir?” he spoke finally with obvious suffering.
“What little question?”
“About the pleasant feelings of a husband, sir, on opening the little chest.”
“Eh, what business is that of mine!” Velchaninov waved his hand biliously, got up, and started pacing the room.
“And I bet you’re now thinking: ‘What a swine you are, to have pointed to your own horns,’ heh, heh! A most squeamish man… you, sir!”
“I’m thinking nothing of the sort. On the contrary, you are much too annoyed by your offender’s death, and you’ve drunk a lot of wine besides. I see nothing extraordinary in any of it; I understand too well why you needed a live Bagautov, and I’m prepared to respect your vexation, but…”
“And what did I need Bagautov for, in your opinion,
sir?”
“That’s your business.”
“I’ll bet you had in mind a duel, sir?”
“Devil take it!” Velchaninov restrained himself less and less, “I thought that, like any decent man… in such cases—one doesn’t stoop to comical babble, to stupid clowning, to ridiculous complaints and vile hints, with which he besmirches himself still more, but acts clearly, directly, openly, like a decent man!”
“Heh, heh, yes, but maybe I’m not a decent man, sir?”
“That, again, is your business… and, anyhow, what the devil did you need a live Bagautov for?”
“Why, only so as to have a look at a nice friend, sir. We’d have taken a little bottle and had a drink together.”
“He’d never have drunk with you.”
“Why? Noblesse oblige? You drink with me, sir; is he any better than you?”
“I didn’t drink with you.”
“Why such pride all of a sudden, sir?”
Velchaninov suddenly burst into nervous and irritated laughter.
“Pah, the devil! but you’re decidedly some sort of ‘predatory type’! I thought you were just an ‘eternal husband’
