They engaged a private room, and after luncheon and vodka5 had been ordered, Yaroslav Ilyitch seated himself, and gazed affectionately at his companion.
“I too have read much,” he began in an insinuating voice. “I have read the whole of Pushkin6!”
Ordynov, still at sea, only looked at him.
“What an astonishing knowledge of love was Pushkin’s!” Yaroslav went on. “But first of all let me thank you for all the good you have done me by so kindly suggesting to me noble thoughts.”
“Oh, you exaggerate,” murmured the other.
“No, I do not. I love truth, and am conscious of having ever consistently held fast to that principle.”
“Oh, you are not fair to yourself; and as for me——”
“What I say is true,” repeated Yaroslav warmly. “Who am I compared with you?”
“Oh, oh!”
“It is so, I tell you.”
There ensued a pause.
“It was solely owing to your good advice that I left off frequenting bad company and amended my morals,” continued Yaroslav impressively. “I now spend the greater part of my leisure at home, and in the evenings I read some improving book or other, and then——In fact, I have but one desire now, Vassilii Michaelovitch; and that is, to serve my country.”
“I always thought you a good fellow, Yaroslav Ilyitch.”
“Ah, how you encourage me!” And Yaroslav pressed his friend’s hand with even greater fervour than before.
“But why are you not drinking?” he said, when his emotion had somewhat subsided.
“I cannot do so; I am not very well.”
“Not very well, eh? To think of that! Since when have you been ill? Would you like me to send for a really reliable physician? Would you? I will go at once and fetch him myself. He is a very clever man.” Yaroslav llyitch was already reaching for his hat.
“Thank you, but I detest any kind of fuss, and have an innate distrust of doctors.”
“Oh, how can you say so?” protested Yaroslav. “I repeat to you that this doctor is a really clever man. Not long ago (if you do not mind my telling you the story, my dear Vassilii?) there came to consult him a poor blacksmith. Said the blacksmith to the doctor, ‘I have sent a tool right through my hand. Please cure me.’ Upon this Simon Pafnutich—who at once perceived that the unfortunate man was standing in imminent danger of gangrene—decided to amputate the whole arm, and performed the operation in my presence. Yet so splendid, so truly wondrous, was the way in which he did it that I forgot my pity for the patient’s suffering in my admiration of the simplicity, yet sheer impressiveness, of the feat performed. . . . When and where were you taken ill?”
“When I was changing my lodgings. I have only just come from a sick-bed.”
“Then you are still unwell, and ought never to have come out! You are not in your old abode, are you? Why not?”
“Because my landlady had to leave St. Petersburg.”