‘Hullo! hullo! here he is!’ he suddenly heard a squeaky voice just above his ear, and a plump hand slapped him on the shoulder. He lifted his head, and perceived one of his few Moscow acquaintances, a certain Bambaev, a good-natured but good-for-nothing fellow. He was no longer young, he had a flabby nose and soft cheeks, that looked as if they had been boiled, dishevelled greasy locks, and a fat squat person. Everlastingly short of cash, and everlastingly in raptures over something, Rostislav Bambaev wandered, aimless but exclamatory, over the face of our long-suffering mother-earth. ‘Well, this is something like a meeting!’ he repeated, opening wide his sunken eyes, and drawing down his thick lips, over which the straggling dyed moustaches seemed strangely out of place. ‘Ah, Baden! All the world runs here like black-beetles! How did you come here, Grisha?’ There was positively no one in the world Bambaev did not address by his Christian name. ‘I came here three days ago.’ ‘From where?’ ‘Why do you ask?’ ‘Why indeed? But stop, stop a minute, Grisha. You are, perhaps, not aware who has just arrived here! Gubaryov himself, in person! That’s who’s here! He came yesterday from Heidelberg. You know him of course?’ ‘I have heard of him.’ ‘Is that all? Upon my word! At once, this very minute we will haul you along to him. Not know a man like that! And by the way here’s Voroshilov.... Stop a minute, Grisha, perhaps you don’t know him either? I have the honour to present you to one another. Both learned men! He’s a phoenix indeed! Kiss each other!’ And uttering these words, Bambaev turned to a good-looking young man standing near him with a fresh and rosy, but prematurely demure face. Litvinov got up, and, it need hardly be said, did not kiss him, but exchanged a cursory bow with the phoenix, who, to judge from the severity of his demeanour, was not overpleased at this unexpected introduction. ‘I said a phoenix, and I will not go back from my word,’ continued Bambaev; ‘go to ‘What is his work about?’ inquired Litvinov. ‘About everything, my dear boy, after the style of Buckle, you know ... but more profound, more profound.... Everything will be solved and made clear in it.’ ‘And have you read this work yourself?’ ‘No, I have not read it, and indeed it’s a secret, which must not be spread about; but from Gubaryov one may expect everything, everything! Yes!’ Bambaev sighed and clasped his hands. ‘Ah, if we had two or three intellects like that growing up in Russia, ah, what mightn’t we see then, my God! I tell you one thing, Grisha; whatever pursuit you may have been engaged in in these latter days—and I don’t even know what your pursuits are in general—whatever your convictions may be—I don’t know them either—from him, Gubaryov, you will find something to learn. Unluckily, he is not here for long. We must make the most of him; we must go. To him, to him!’ A passing dandy with reddish curls and a blue ribbon on his low hat, turned round and stared through his eyeglass with a sarcastic smile at Bambaev. Litvinov felt irritated. ‘What are you shouting for?’ he said; ‘one would think you were hallooing dogs on at a hunt! I have not had dinner yet.’ ‘Well, think of that! we can go at once to Weber’s ... the three of us ... capital! You have the cash to pay for me?’ he added in an undertone. ‘Yes, yes; only, I really don’t know——’ ‘Leave off, please; you will thank me for it, and he will be delighted. Ah, heavens!’ Bambaev interrupted himself. ‘It’s the finale from Ernani they’re playing. How delicious!... A som ... mo Carlo.... What a fellow I am, though! In tears in a minute. Well, Semyon Yakovlevitch! Voroshilov! shall we go, eh?’ Voroshilov, who had remained all the while standing with immovable propriety, still maintaining his former haughty dignity of demeanour, dropped his eyes expressively, frowned, and muttered something between his teeth ... But he did not refuse; and Litvinov thought, ‘Well, we may as well do it, as I’ve plenty of time on my hands.’ Bambaev took his arm, but before turning towards the cafÉ he beckoned to Isabelle the renowned flower-girl of When they had taken their seats in the principal dining-hall at Weber’s, and ordered dinner, our friends fell into conversation. Bambaev discoursed loudly and hotly upon the immense importance of Gubaryov, but soon he ceased speaking, and, gasping and chewing noisily, drained off glass after glass. Voroshilov ‘Well,’ cried Bambaev, getting heavily up from his chair, ‘now for a cup of coffee, and quick march. There she is, our Russia,’ he added, stopping in the doorway, and pointing almost rapturously with his soft red hand to Voroshilov and Litvinov.... ‘What do you think of her?...’ ‘Russia, indeed,’ thought Litvinov; and Voroshilov, whose face had by now regained its concentrated expression, again smiled condescendingly, and gave a little tap with his heels. Within five minutes they were all three mounting the stairs of the hotel where Stepan Nikolaitch Gubaryov was staying.... A tall slender lady, in a hat with a short black veil, was coming quickly down the same staircase. |