Pavel Pavlovitch poured himself out another glass.
“I’ll tell you directly how I found out all about Mr. Bagantoff, and your burning wish shall be satisfied. For you are a fiery sort of man, you know, Alexey Ivanovitch, oh, dreadfully so! Ha-ha-ha. Just give me a cigarette first, will you, for ever since March——”
“Here’s a cigarette for you.”
“Ever since March I have been a depraved man, sir, and this is how it all came about. Listen. Consumption, as you know, my dear friend” (Pavel Pavlovitch was growing more and more familiar!), “is an interesting malady. One sees a man dying of consumption without a suspicion that to-morrow is to be his last day. Well, I told you how Natalia Vasilievna, up to five hours before her death, talked about going to visit her aunt, who lived thirty miles or so away, and starting in a fortnight. You know how some ladies—and gentlemen, too, I daresay—have the bad habit of keeping a lot of old rubbish by them, in the way of love-letters and so on. It would be much safer to stick them all into the fire, wouldn’t it? But no, they must keep every little scrap of paper in drawers and desks, and endorse it and classify it, and tie it up in bundles, for each year and month and class! I don’t know whether they find this consoling to their feelings afterwards, or what. Well, since she was arranging a visit to her aunt just five hours before her death, Natalia Vasilievna naturally did not expect to die so soon; in fact, she was expecting old Doctor Koch down till the last; and so, when Natalia Vasilievna did die, she left behind her a beautiful little black desk all inlaid with mother-of-pearl, and bound with silver, in her bureau; oh, a lovely little box, an heirloom left her by her grandmother, with a lock and key all complete. Well, sir, in this box everything—I mean everything, you know, for every day and hour for the last twenty years—was disclosed; and since Mr. Bagantoff had a decided taste for literature (indeed, he had published a passionate novel once, I am told, in a newspaper!)—consequently there were about a hundred examples of his genius in the desk, ranging over a period of five years. Some of these talented effusions were covered with pencilled remarks by Natalia Vasilievna herself! Pleasant, that, for a fond husband’s feelings, sir, eh?”
Velchaninoff quickly cast his thoughts back over the past, and remembered that he had never written a single letter or a single note to Natalia Vasilievna.
He had written a couple of letters from St. Petersburg, but, according to a previous arrangement, he had addressed them to both Mr. and Mrs. Trusotsky together. He had not answered Natalia Vasilievna’s last letter—which had contained his dismissal—at all.
Having ended his speech, Pavel Pavlovitch relapsed into silence, and sat smiling repulsively for a whole minute or so.
“Why don’t you answer my question, my friend?” he asked, at length, evidently disturbed by Velchaninoff’s silence.
“What question?”
“As to the pleasure I must have felt as a fond husband, upon opening the desk.”
“Your feelings are no business of mine!” said the other bitterly, rising and commencing to stride up and down the room.
“I wouldn’t mind betting that you are thinking at this very moment: ‘What a pig of a fellow he is to parade his shame like this!’ Ha-ha! dear me, what a squeamish gentleman you are to be sure!”
“Not at all. I was thinking nothing of the sort; on the contrary, I consider that you are—besides being more or less intoxicated—so put out by the death of the man who has injured you that you are not yourself. There’s nothing surprising in it at all! I quite understand why you wish Bagantoff were still alive, and am ready to respect your annoyance, but——”
“And pray why do you suppose that I wish Bagantoff were alive?”
“Oh, that’s your affair!”
“I’ll take my oath you are thinking of a duel!”
“Devil take it, sir!” cried Velchaninoff, obliged to hold himself tighter than ever. “I was thinking that you, like every respectable person in similar circumstances, would act openly and candidly and straightforwardly, and not humiliate yourself with comical antics and silly grimaces, and ridiculous complaints and detestable innuendoes, which only heap greater shame upon you. I say I was thinking you would act like a respectable person.”
“Ha-ha-ha!—but perhaps I am not a respectable person!”
“Oh, well, that’s your own affair again and yet, if so, what in the devil’s name could you want with Bagantoff alive?”
“Oh, my dear sir, I should have liked just to have a nice peep at a dear old friend, that’s all. We should have got hold of a bottle of wine, and drunk it together!”
“He wouldn’t have drunk with you!”
“Why not? Noblesse oblige? Why, you are drinking with me. Wherein is he better than you?”
“I have not drunk with you.”
“Wherefore this sudden pride, sir?”
Velchaninoff suddenly burst into a fit of nervous, irritable laughter.
“Why, deuce take it all!” he cried, “you are quite a different type to what I believed. I thought you were nothing but a ‘permanent husband,’ but I find you are a sort of bird of prey.”
“What! ‘permanent husband?’ What is a ‘permanent husband?’ ” asked Pavel Pavlovitch, pricking up his ears.
“Oh—just one type of husbands—that’s all, it’s too long to explain. Come, you’d better get out now; it’s quite time you went. I’m sick of you!”
“And bird of prey, sir; what did that mean?”
“I said you were a bird of prey for a joke.”
“Yes; but—bird of prey—tell me what you mean, Alexey Ivanovitch, for goodness sake!”
“Come, come, that’s quite enough!” shouted Velchaninoff, suddenly flaring up and speaking at the top of his voice. “It’s time you went; get out of this, will you?”
“No, sir, it’s not enough!” cried Pavel Pavlovitch, jumping up, too. “Even if you are sick of me, sir, it’s not enough; for you must first drink and clink glasses with me. I won’t go before you do! No, no; oh dear no! drink first; it’s not enough yet.”
“Pavel Pavlovitch, will you go to the devil or will you not?”
“With pleasure, sir. I’ll go to the devil with pleasure; but first we must drink. You say you don’t wish to drink with me; but I wish you to drink with me—actually with me.”
Pavel Pavlovitch was grimacing and giggling no longer. He seemed to be suddenly transfigured again, and was as different from the Pavel Pavlovitch of but a few moments since as he could possibly be, both in appearance and in the tone of his voice; so much so that Velchaninoff was absolutely confounded.
“Come, Alexey Ivanovitch, let’s drink!—don’t refuse me!” continued Pavel Pavlovitch, seizing the other tightly by the hand and gazing into his face with an extraordinary expression.
It was clear there was more in this matter than the mere question of drinking a glass of wine.
“Well,” muttered Velchaninoff, “but that’s nothing but dregs!”
“No, there’s just a couple of glasses left—it’s quite clear. Now then, clink glasses and drink. There, I’ll take your glass and you take mine.” They touched glasses and drank.
“Oh, Alexey Ivanovitch! now that we’ve drunk together—oh!” Pavel Pavlovitch suddenly raised his hand to his forehead and sat still for a few moments.
Velchaninoff trembled with excitement. He thought Pavel Pavlovitch was about to disclose all; but Pavel Pavlovitch said nothing whatever. He only looked at him, and quietly smiled his detestable cunning smile in the other’s face.
“What do you want with me, you drunken wretch?” cried Velchaninoff, furious, and stamping his foot upon the floor; “you are making a fool of me!”
“Don’t shout so—don’t shout! Why make such a noise?” cried Pavel Pavlovitch. “I’m not making a fool of you! Do you know what you are to me now?” and he suddenly seized Velchaninoff’s hand, and kissed it before Velchaninoff could recollect himself.
“There, that’s what you are to me now; and now I’ll go to the devil.”
“Wait a bit—stop!” cried Velchaninoff, recollecting himself; “there’s something I wished to say to you.”
Pavel Pavlovitch turned back from the door.
“You see,” began Velchaninoff, blushing and keeping his eye well away from the other, “you ought to go with me to the Pogoryeltseffs to-morrow—just to thank them, you know, and make their acquaintance.”
“Of course, of course; quite so!” said Pavel Pavlovitch readily, and making a gesture of the hand to imply that he knew his duty, and there was no need to remind him of it.
“Besides Liza expects you anxiously—I promised her.”
“Liza?” Pavel Pavlovitch turned quickly once more upon him. “Liza? Do you know, sir, what this Liza has been to me—has been and is?” he cried passionately and almost beside himself; “but—no!—afterwards—that shall be afterwards! Meanwhile it’s not enough for me, Alexey Ivanovitch, that we have drunk together; there’s another satisfaction I must have, sir!” He placed his hat on a chair, and, panting with excitement, gazed at his companion with much the same expression as before.
“Kiss me, Alexey Ivanovitch!”
“Are you drunk?” cried the other, drawing back.
“Yes, I am—but kiss me all the same, Alexey Ivanovitch—oh, do! I kissed your hand just now, you know.”
Alexey Ivanovitch was silent for a few moments, as though stunned by the blow of a cudgel. Then he quickly bent down to Pavel Pavlovitch (who was about the height of his shoulder), and kissed his lips, from which proceeded a disagreeably powerful odour of wine. He performed the action as though not quite certain of what he was doing.
“Well! now, now!” cried Pavel Pavlovitch, with drunken enthusiasm, and with his eyes flashing fiercely;
