“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 and make a bridge out of dead bodies.  And such hardihood is more needed in war than any kind of fortification or strategy.  Oh, I understand him perfectly!  Tell me:  why is he wasting his substance here?  What does he want here?”