The host held in his hand a box of special, ten-year-old cigars, such as he said no one else had, and he was preparing to boast about them to his guest. The host was a handsome man of about twenty-five, fresh-looking, well cared for, and well groomed. In the house he was wearing a new loose thick suit made in London. Large expensive pendants hung from his watch-chain. His gold-mounted turquoise shirt studs were also large and massive. He had a beard a la Napoleon III, and the tips of his moustache stuck out in a way that could only have been learned in Paris.
The hostess wore a dress of silk gauze with a large floral pattern of many colours, and large gold hair-pins of a peculiar pattern held up her thick, light-brown hair-beautiful though not all her own. On her arms and hands she wore many bracelets and rings, all of them expensive.
The tea-service was of delicate china and the samovar of silver. A footman, resplendent in dress-coat, white waistcoat and necktie, stood like a statue by the door awaiting orders. The furniture was elegantly carved and upholstered in bright colours, the wall-paper dark with a large flowered pattern. Beside the table, tinkling the silver bells on its collar, was a Particularly fine whippet, whose difficult English name its owners, who neither of them knew English, pronounced.
In the corner, surrounded by plants, stood an inlaid piano. Everything gave an impression of newness, luxury, and rarity. Everything was good, but it all bore an imprint of superfluity, wealth, and the absence of intellectual interests.
The host, a lover of trotting races, was sturdy and full-blooded-one of that never-dying race which drives about in sable coats, throws expensive bouquets to actresses, drinks the most expensive wines with the most fashionable labels at the most expensive restaurants, offers prizes engraved with the donor’s name, and keeps the most expensive mistresses.
Nikita Serpukhovskoy, their guest, was a man of over forty, tall, stout, bald-headed, with heavy moustaches and whiskers. He must once have been very handsome but had now evidently sunk physically, morally, and financially.
He had such debts that he had been obliged to enter the government service to avoid imprisonment for debt and was now on his way to a provincial town to become the head of a stud farm, a post some important relatives had obtained for him.
He wore a military coat and blue trousers of a kind only a rich man would have had made for himself. His shirt was of similar quality and so was his English watch. His boots had wonderful soles as thick as a man’s finger.
Nikita Serpukhovskoy had during his life run through a fortune of two million rubles, and was now a hundred and twenty thousand in debt. In cases of that kind there always remains a certain momentum of life enabling a man to obtain credit and continue living almost luxuriously for another ten years.
These ten years were however coming to an end, the momentum was exhausted, and life was growing hard for Nikita. He was already beginning to drink-that is, to get fuddled with wine, a thing that used not to happen, though strictly speaking he had never begun or left off drinking. His decline was most noticeable in the restlessness of his glance (his eyes had grown shifty) and in the uncertainty of his voice and movements. This restlessness struck one the more as it had evidently got hold of him only recently, for one could see that he had all his life been accustomed not to be afraid of anything or anybody and had only recently, through heavy suffering, reached this state of fear so unnatural to him.
His host and hostess noticed this and exchanged glances which showed that they understood one another and were only postponing till bedtime a detailed discussion of the subject, putting up meanwhile with poor Nikita and even showing him attentions.
The sight of his young host’s good fortune humiliated Serpukhovskoy, awakening a painful envy in him as he recalled his own irrecoverable past.
“Do you mind my smoking a cigar, Marie?” he asked, addressing the lady in the peculiar tone acquired only by experience-the tone, polite and friendly but not quite respectful, in which men who know the world speak to kept women in contradistinction to wives. Not that he wished to offend her: on the contrary he now wished rather to curry favour with her and with her keeper, thought he would on no account have acknowledged the fact to himself.
But he was accustomed to speak in that way to such women. He knew she would herself be surprised and even offended were he to treat her as a lady. Besides he had to retain a certain shade of a respectful tone for his friend’s real wife. He always treated his friend’s mistresses with respect, not because he shared the so-called convictions promulgated in periodicals (he never read trash of that kind) about the respect due to the personality of every man, about the meaninglessness of marriage, and so forth, but because all decent men do so and he was a decent, though fallen, man.
He took a cigar. But his host awkwardly picked up a whole handful and offered them to him.
“Just see how good these are. Take them!”
Serpukhovskoy pushed aside the hand with the cigars, and a gleam of offence and shame showed itself in his eyes.
“Thank you!” He took out his cigar-case. “Try mine!”
The hostess was sensitive. She noticed his embarrassment and hastened to talk to him.
“I am very fond of cigars. I should smoke myself if everyone about me did not smoke.”
And she smiled her pretty, kindly smile. He smiled in return, but irresolutely. Two of his teeth were missing.
“No, take this!” the tactless host continued. “The others are weaker. Fritz, bringen Sie noch einen Kasten,” he said; “dort zwei.” Footnote: “Bring another box. There are two there.”
The German footman brought another box.
“Do you prefer big ones? Strong ones? These are very good. Take them all!” he continued, forcing them on his guest.
He was evidently glad to have someone to boast to of the rare things he possessed, and he noticed nothing amiss. Serpukhovskoy lit his cigar and hastened to resume the conversation they had begun.
“So, how much did you pay for Atlasny?” he asked.
“He cost me a great deal, not less than five thousand, but at any rate I am already safe on him. What colts he gets, I tell you!”
“Do they trot?” asked Serpukhovskoy.
“They trot well! His colt took three prizes this year: in Tula, in Moscow, and in Petersburg; he raced Voekov’s Raven. That rascal, the driver, let him make four false steps or he’d have left the other behind the flag.”
“He’s a bit green. Too much Dutch blood in him, that’s what I say,” remarked Serpukhovskoy.
“Well, but what about the mares? I’ll show Goody to you tomorrow. I gave three thousand for her. For Amiable I gave two thousand.”
And the host again began to enumerate his possessions. The hostess saw that this hurt Serpukhovskoy and that he was only pretending to listen.
“Will you have some more tea?” she asked.
“I won’t,” replied the host and went on talking. She rose, the host stopped her, embraced her, and kissed her.
As he looked at them Serpukhovskoy for their sakes tried to force a smile, but after the host had got up, embraced her, and led her to the portiere, Serpukhovskoy’s face suddenly changed. He sighed heavily, and a look of despair showed itself on his flabby face. Even malevolence appeared on it.
The host returned and smilingly sat down opposite him. They were silent awhile.
Chapter XI
“Yes, you were saying you bought him of Voekov,” remarked Serpukhovskoy with assumed carelessness.
“Oh yes, that was of Atlasny, you know. I always meant to buy some mares of Dubovitzki, but he had nothing but rubbish left.”
“He has failed . . . “ said Serpukhovskoy, and suddenly stopped and glanced round. He remembered that he owed that bankrupt twenty thousand rubles, and if it came to talking of being bankrupt it was certainly said that he was one. He laughed.
Both again sat silent for a long time. The host considered what he could brag about to his guest. Serpukhovskoy was thinking what he could say to show that he did not consider himself bankrupt. But the minds of both worked with difficulty, in spite of efforts to brace themselves up with cigars. “When are we going to have a drink?” thought Serpukhovskoy. I must certainly have a drink or I shall die of ennui with this fellow,” thought the host.
“Will you be remaining here long?” Serpukhovskoy asked.
“Another month. Well, shall we have supper, eh? Fritz, is it ready?”
They went into the dining-room. There under a hanging lamp stood a table on which were candles and all sorts of extraordinary things: syphons, and little dolls fastened to corks, rare wine in decanters, unusual hors-d’oeuvres, and vodka. They had a drink, ate a little, drank again, ate again, and their conversation got into swing. Serpukhovskoy was flushed and began to speak without timidity.
They spoke of women and of who kept this one or that, a gipsy, a ballet-girl, or a Frenchwoman.
“And have you given up Mathieu?” asked the host. (That was the woman who had ruined Serpukhovskoy.)
“No, she left me. Ah, my dear fellow, when I recall what I have got through in my life! Now I am really glad when I have a thousand rubles, and am glad to get away from everybody. I can’t stand
