“You believe in your old agent; to me his words are meaningless.  Your old man could be a hypocrite; he could exercise himself in the virtue of patience, and, as he did so, look upon a person he did not love as an object indispensable for his moral exercises; but I have not yet fallen so low.  If I want to exercise myself in patience, I will buy dumb-bells or a frisky horse, but I’ll leave human beings alone.”

Samoylenko asked for some white wine with ice.  When they had drunk a glass each, Laevsky suddenly asked: 

“Tell me, please, what is the meaning of softening of the brain?”

“How can I explain it to you? . . .  It’s a disease in which the brain becomes softer . . . as it were, dissolves.”

“Is it curable?”

“Yes, if the disease is not neglected.  Cold douches, blisters. . . .  Something internal, too.”

“Oh! . . .  Well, you see my position; I can’t live with her:  it is more than I can do.  While I’m with you I can be philosophical about it and smile, but at home I lose heart completely; I am so utterly miserable, that if I were told, for instance, that I should have to live another month with her, I should blow out my brains.  At the same time, parting with her is out of the question.  She has no friends or relations; she cannot work, and neither she nor I have any money. . . .  What could become of her?  To whom could she go?  There is nothing one can think of. . . .  Come, tell me, what am I to do?”

“H’m! . . .” growled Samoylenko, not knowing what to answer.  “Does she love you?”

“Yes, she loves me in so far as at her age and with her temperament she wants a man.  It would be as difficult for her to do without me as to do without her powder or her curl-papers.  I am for her an indispensable, integral part of her boudoir.”

Samoylenko was embarrassed.

“You are out of humour to-day, Vanya,” he said.  “You must have had a bad night.”

“Yes, I slept badly. . . .  Altogether, I feel horribly out of sorts, brother.  My head feels empty; there’s a sinking at my heart, a weakness. . . .  I must run away.”

“Run where?”

“There, to the North.  To the pines and the mushrooms, to people and ideas. . . .  I’d give half my life to bathe now in some little stream in the province of Moscow or Tula; to feel chilly, you know, and then to stroll for three hours even with the feeblest student, and to talk and talk endlessly. . . .  And the scent of the hay!  Do you remember it?  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.  To my mind, there is not a country more splendid than the Caucasus.”