“I’ll explain to you presently how I found out ‘everything,’ sir, and thereby satisfy your fiery wishes… for you’re a fiery man, Alexei Ivanovich, a terribly fiery man, sir! heh, heh! only give me a little cigarette, because since the month of March I…”

“Here’s your cigarette.”

“I’ve become dissolute since the month of March, Alexei Ivanovich, and this is how it happened, sir, lend me your ear. Consumption, as you know yourself, my dearest friend,” he was getting more and more familiar, “is a curious disease, sir. Quite often a consumptive person dies almost without suspecting he might die the next day, sir. I tell you that just five hours before, Natalia Vassilievna was planning to go in two weeks to visit her aunt thirty miles away. Besides, you’re probably familiar with the habit, or, better to say, the trait common to many ladies, and perhaps gentlemen as well, sir, of preserving their old trash, such as love correspondence, sir. The surest thing would be the stove, right, sir? No, every scrap of paper is carefully preserved in their little boxes and hold-alls; it’s even numbered by years, by dates and categories. Whether it’s very comforting or something—I don’t know, sir; but it must be for the sake of pleasant memories. Since she was planning, five hours before the end, to go to her aunt’s for the celebration, Natalia Vassilievna naturally had no thought of death, even to the very last hour, sir, and kept waiting for Koch. And so it happened, sir, that Natalia Vassilievna died, and a little ebony box inlaid with mother-of-pearl and silver was left in her desk. Such a pretty little box, with a key, sir, an heirloom, handed down from her grandmother. Well, sir—it was in this box that everything was revealed—that is, everything, sir, without any exception, by days and years, over two whole decades. And since Stepan Mikhailovich had a decided inclination for literature, having once even sent a passionate story to a magazine, there turned out to be nearly a hundred numbers of his works in the little chest—true, it was for five years, sir. Some numbers were even marked in Natalia Vassilievna’s own hand. A pleasure for a husband, wouldn’t you think, sir?”

Velchaninov quickly reflected and remembered that he had never written even one letter, even one note, to Natalia Vassilievna. And though he had written two letters from Petersburg, they had been addressed to both spouses, as had been arranged. And to Natalia Vassilievna’s last letter, informing him of his dismissal, he had never replied.

After finishing his story, Pavel Pavlovich was silent for a whole minute, smiling importunately and expectantly.

“Why do you answer nothing to my little question, sir?” he spoke finally with obvious suffering.

“What little question?”

“About the pleasant feelings of a husband, sir, on opening the little chest.”

“Eh, what business is that of mine!” Velchaninov waved his hand biliously, got up, and started pacing the room.

“And I bet you’re now thinking: ‘What a swine you are, to have pointed to your own horns,’ heh, heh! A most squeamish man… you, sir!”

“I’m thinking nothing of the sort. On the contrary, you are much too annoyed by your offender’s death, and you’ve drunk a lot of wine besides. I see nothing extraordinary in any of it; I understand too well why you needed a live Bagautov, and I’m prepared to respect your vexation, but…”

“And what did I need Bagautov for, in your opinion,

sir?”

“That’s your business.”

“I’ll bet you had in mind a duel, sir?”

“Devil take it!” Velchaninov restrained himself less and less, “I thought that, like any decent man… in such cases—one doesn’t stoop to comical babble, to stupid clowning, to ridiculous complaints and vile hints, with which he besmirches himself still more, but acts clearly, directly, openly, like a decent man!”

“Heh, heh, yes, but maybe I’m not a decent man, sir?”

“That, again, is your business… and, anyhow, what the devil did you need a live Bagautov for?”

“Why, only so as to have a look at a nice friend, sir. We’d have taken a little bottle and had a drink together.”

“He’d never have drunk with you.”

“Why? Noblesse oblige? You drink with me, sir; is he any better than you?”

“I didn’t drink with you.”

“Why such pride all of a sudden, sir?”

Velchaninov suddenly burst into nervous and irritated laughter.

“Pah, the devil! but you’re decidedly some sort of ‘predatory type’! I thought you were just an ‘eternal husband’ and nothing more!”

“How’s that? an ‘eternal husband’? What does it mean?” Pavel Pavlovich suddenly pricked up his ears.

“Just so, one type of husband… it’s too long a story. You’d better just clear out, your time is up; I’m sick of you!”

“And what’s this about predatory? You said predatory?”

“I said you’re a ‘predatory type’—I said it to mock you.”

“What sort of ‘predatory type,’ sir? Tell me, please, Alexei Ivanovich, for God’s sake, or for Christ’s sake.”

“Well, that’s enough, enough!” Velchaninov cried suddenly, again getting terribly angry. “Your time is up, clear out!”

“No, it’s not enough, sir!” Pavel Pavlovich, too, jumped up. “Even though you’re sick of me, it’s still not enough, because first you and I must have a drink and clink glasses! We’ll have a drink, and then I’ll go, but now it’s not enough!”

“Pavel Pavlovich, can you clear the hell out of here today or not?”

“I can clear the hell out of here, sir, but first we’ll drink! You said you don’t want to drink precisely with me; well, but I want that you drink precisely with me!”

He was no longer clowning, no longer tittering. Everything in him was again as if transformed suddenly and was now so opposite to the whole figure and tone of the just-now Pavel Pavlovich that Velchaninov was decidedly taken aback.

“Eh, let’s drink, Alexei Ivanovich, eh, don’t refuse!” Pavel Pavlovich went on, gripping him firmly by the arm and looking strangely into his face. Obviously, this was not just a matter of drinking.

“Yes, perhaps,” the man muttered, “and where’s… this is swill…”

“Exactly two glasses left, pure swill, sir, but we’ll drink and clink glasses, sir! Here, sir, kindly take your glass.”

They clinked and drank.

“Well, and if so, if so… ah!” Pavel Pavlovich suddenly seized his forehead with his hand and for a few moments remained in that position. Velchaninov imagined that he was now going to up and speak out the very last word. But Pavel Pavlovich did not speak anything out for him; he only looked at him and quietly stretched his mouth again into the same sly and winking smile.

“What do you want from me, you drunk man! You’re fooling with me!” Velchaninov cried frenziedly, stamping his feet.

“Don’t shout, don’t shout, why shout?” Pavel Pavlovich hastily waved his hand. “I’m not fooling with you, I’m not! Do you know what you’ve—this is what you’ve become for me now!”

And he suddenly seized his hand and kissed it. Velchaninov had no time to recover himself.

“This is what you are for me now, sir! And now—to all the devils with me!”

“Wait, stop!” the recovered Velchaninov cried, “I forgot to tell you…”

Pavel Pavlovich turned around at the door.

“You see,” Velchaninov began to mutter extremely quickly, blushing and averting his eyes completely, “you should be at the Pogoreltsevs’ tomorrow without fail… to get acquainted and to thank them—without fail…”

“Without fail, without fail, how could I not understand, sir!” Pavel Pavlovich picked up with extreme readiness, quickly waving his hand as a sign that there was no need to remind him.

“Besides, Liza is also waiting for you very much. I promised…”

“Liza,” Pavel Pavlovich suddenly came back again, “Liza? Do you know, sir, what Liza was for me, was and is, sir? Was and is!” he suddenly cried almost in frenzy. “But… Heh! That’s for later, sir; that’s all for later… and now—it’s no longer enough for me that you and I drank together, Alexei Ivanovich, it’s another satisfaction that’s needed, sir!…”