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Samoylenko, who had never read Tolstoy and was intending to do so every day of his life, was a little embarrassed, and said: "Yes, all other authors write from imagination, but he writes straight from nature." "My God!" sighed Laevsky; "how distorted we all are by civilisation!
If you don't come, something dreadful will happen." "Strange . . ." muttered Laevsky, unable to understand why Atchmianov was so excited and what mysteries there could be in this dull, useless little town. "Strange," he repeated in hesitation. "Come along, though; I don't care." Atchmianov walked rapidly on ahead and Laevsky followed him. They walked down a street, then turned into an alley.
If Samoylenko, who was obviously under the influence of Von Koren, should refuse the money altogether or make fresh conditions, then he, Laevsky, would go off that very evening in a cargo vessel, or even in a sailing-boat, to Novy Athon or Novorossiisk, would send from there an humiliating telegram, and would stay there till his mother sent him the money for the journey.
"You are an elderly child, a theorist, while I am an old man in spite of my years, and practical, and we shall never understand one another. We had better drop this conversation. Mustapha!" Laevsky shouted to the waiter. "What's our bill?" "No, no . . ." the doctor cried in dismay, clutching Laevsky's arm. "It is for me to pay. I ordered it. Make it out to me," he cried to Mustapha.
And in the evening, when one walks in the garden, sounds of the piano float from the house; one hears the train passing. . . ." Laevsky laughed with pleasure; tears came into his eyes, and to cover them, without getting up, he stretched across the next table for the matches. "I have not been in Russia for eighteen years," said Samoylenko. "I've forgotten what it is like.
But why is he going alone instead of taking her with him? And ask him why he doesn't send her off first. The sly beast!" Overcome with sudden doubts and suspicions about his friend, Samoylenko weakened and took a humbler tone. "But it's impossible," he said, recalling the night Laevsky had spent at his house. "He is so unhappy!" "What of that? Thieves and incendiaries are unhappy too!"
No one has anything to spare, and I've only been able to collect by five- and by ten-rouble notes. . . . Only a hundred and ten in all. To-day I'll speak to some one else. Have patience." "But Saturday is the latest date," whispered Laevsky, trembling with impatience. "By all that's sacred, get it by Saturday! If I don't get away by Saturday, nothing's any use, nothing!
She was stirred by passion; she was ashamed of herself, and afraid that even her misery and sorrow would not prevent her from yielding to impure desire to-morrow, if not to-day and that, like a drunkard, she would not have the strength to stop herself. She made up her mind to go away that she might not continue this life, shameful for herself, and humiliating for Laevsky.
The boatmen were by now below, holding the boat, which was beating against the piles, though the breakwater screened it from the breakers. Von Koren went down the ladder, jumped into the boat, and sat at the helm. "Write!" Samoylenko shouted to him. "Take care of yourself." "No one knows the real truth," thought Laevsky, turning up the collar of his coat and thrusting his hands into his sleeves.
They all drank wine, and even gave Kostya and Katya half a glass each. Nadyezhda Fyodorovna drank one glass and then another, got a little drunk and forgot about Kirilin. "A splendid picnic, an enchanting evening," said Laevsky, growing lively with the wine. "But I should prefer a fine winter to all this. 'His beaver collar is silver with hoar-frost. "Every one to his taste," observed Von Koren.
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