and so will Vasia! I've only to tell him and he'll jump! eh, Vasia? You'll jump, eh?"The clerk finished his glass of champagne.
"Where you go, Kapiton Andraitch, there I follow.I shouldn't dare do otherwise.""You had better not, or I'll make mincemeat of you!"Soon a perfect babel followed.
Like the first flakes of snow whirling round and round in the mild autumn air, so words began flying in all directions in Golushkin's hot, stuffy dining-room; all kinds of words, rolling and tumbling over one another: progress, government, literature, the taxation question, the church question, the woman question;the law-court question, realism, nihilism, communism, international, clerical, liberal, capital, administration, organisation, association, and even crystallisation! It was just what Golushkin wanted; this uproar seemed to him the real thing.
He was triumphant."Look at us! out of the way or I'll knock you on the head! Kapiton Golushkin is coming!" At last the clerk Vasia became so tipsy that he began to giggle and talk to his plate.All at once he jumped up shouting wildly, "What sort of devil is this PROgymnasium?"Golushkin sprang up too, and throwing back his hot, flushed face, on which an expression of vulgar self-satisfaction was curiously mingled with a feeling of terror, a secret misgiving, he bawled out, "I'll sacrifice another thousand! Get it for me, Vasia!" To which Vasia replied, "All right!"Just then Paklin, pale and perspiring (he had been drinking no less than the clerk during the last quarter of an hour), jumped up from his seat and, waving both his arms above his head, shouted brokenly, "Sacrifice! Sacrifice! What pollution of such a holy word! Sacrifice! No one dares live up to thee, no one can fulfill thy commands, certainly not one of us here--and this fool, this miserable money-bag opens its belly, lets forth a few of its miserable roubles, and shouts 'Sacrifice!' And wants to be thanked, expects a wreath of laurels, the mean scoundrel!
Golushkin either did not hear or did not understand what Paklin was saying, or perhaps took it only as a joke, because he shouted again, "Yes, a thousand roubles! Kapiton Golushkin keeps his word!" And so saying he thrust his hand into a side pocket."Here is the money, take it! Tear it to pieces! Remember Kapiton!" When under excitement Golushkin invariably talked of himself in the third person, as children often do.Nejdanov picked up the notes which Golushkin had flung on the table covered with wine stains.
Since there was nothing more to wait for, and the hour was getting late, they rose, took their hats, and departed.
They all felt giddy as soon as they got out into the fresh air, especially Paklin.
"Well, where are we going to now?" he asked with an effort.
"I don't know were you are going, but I'm going home," Solomin replied.
"Back to the factory? " Yes."
"Now, at night, and on foot?"
"Why not? I don't think there are any wolves or robbers here--and my legs are quite strong enough to carry me.It's cooler walking at night.""But hang it all, it's four miles!
"I wouldn't mind if it were more.Good-bye, gentlemen." Solomin buttoned his coat, pulled his cap over his forehead, lighted a cigar, and walked down the street with long strides.
"And where are you going to?" Paklin asked, turning to Nejdanov.
"I'm going home with him." He pointed to Markelov, who was standing motionless, his hands crossed on his breast."We have horses and a conveyance.""Very well....And I'm going to Fomishka's and Fimishka's oasis.And do you know what I should like to say? There's twaddle here and twaddle there, only that twaddle, the twaddle of the eighteenth century, is nearer to the Russian character than the twaddle of the twentieth century.Goodbye, gentlemen.I'm drunk, so don't be offended at what I say, only a better woman than my sister Snandulia...is not to be found on God's earth, although she is a hunchback and called Snandulia.That's how things are arranged in this world! She ought to have such a name.Do you know who Saint Snandulia was? She was a virtuous woman who used to visit prisons and heal the wounds of the sick.But...
goodbye! goodbye, Nejdanov, thou man to be pitied! And you, officer...ugh! misanthrope! goodbye!" He dragged himself away, limping and swaying from side to side, towards the oasis, while Markelov and Nejdanov sought out the posting inn where they had left their conveyance, ordered the horses to be harnessed, and half an hour later were driving along the high road.
