“Because you took her away from her husband and made yourself responsible for her.”

“But now I tell you in plain Russian, I don’t love her!”

“Well, if you’ve no love, show her proper respect, consider her wishes. . . .”

“‘Show her respect, consider her wishes,’” Laevsky mimicked him.  “As though she were some Mother Superior! . . .  You are a poor psychologist and physiologist if you think that living with a woman one can get off with nothing but respect and consideration.  What a woman thinks most of is her bedroom.”

“Vanya, Vanya!” said Samoylenko, overcome with confusion.

“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.

The friends got up and walked in silence along the sea-front.  When they reached the boulevard, they stopped and shook hands at parting.

“You are awfully spoilt, my friend!” Samoylenko sighed.  “Fate has sent you a young, beautiful, cultured woman, and you refuse the gift, while if God were to give me a crooked old woman, how pleased I should be if only she were kind and affectionate!  I would live with her in my vineyard and . . .”

Samoylenko caught himself up and said: 

“And she might get the samovar ready for me there, the old hag.”

After parting with Laevsky he walked along the boulevard.  When, bulky and majestic, with a stern expression on his face, he walked along the boulevard in his snow-white tunic and superbly polished boots, squaring his chest, decorated with the Vladimir cross on a ribbon, he was very much pleased with himself, and it seemed as though the whole world were looking at him with pleasure.  Without turning his head, he looked to each side and thought that the boulevard was extremely well laid out; that the young cypress-trees, the eucalyptuses, and the ugly, anemic palm-trees were very handsome and would in time give abundant shade; that the Circassians were an honest and hospitable people.

“It’s strange that Laevsky does not like the Caucasus,” he thought, “very strange.”

Five soldiers, carrying rifles, met him and saluted him.  On the right side of the boulevard the wife of a local official was walking along the pavement with her son, a schoolboy.

“Good-morning, Marya Konstantinovna,” Samoylenko shouted to her with a pleasant smile.  “Have you been to bathe?  Ha, ha, ha! . . .  My respects to Nikodim Alexandritch!”

And he went on, still smiling pleasantly, but seeing an assistant of the military hospital coming towards him, he suddenly frowned, stopped him, and asked: 

“Is there any one in the hospital?”