It’s unbearably hot in town, the ennui, it’s unpopulated, then you walk out into the fields, there are arachnids, scorpions and snakes creeping under every bush and rock, and beyond the fields are mountains and desert. An alien people, an alien landscape, an impoverished culture—all of this, brother, isn’t as easy as walking down Nevsky in a fur coat with Nadezhda Fyodorovna on your arm, dreaming of warm climates. It’s not life that you’re fighting for here, its death that you’re fighting against, and what kind of a fighter am I? A pitiful neurotic, a soft-handed man … From the very first day, I understood that my vision of toil and a vineyard didn’t amount to a damn thing. When it comes to love, I’m obliged to tell you that living with a woman who has read Spencer and has followed you to the ends of the earth—it is just as uninteresting as being with some Anfisa or Akulina. There is that same smell of ironing, powders and medicines, the same hair-curlers every morning and the same lie that you tell yourself …”

“You can’t go without an iron in the household,” said Samoylenko, reddening from the fact that Laevsky was speaking with him so candidly about a lady with whom he was acquainted. “I’m noticing that you, Vanya, aren’t in high spirits today. Nadezhda Fyodorovna is a wonderful woman, educated, you’re—a man of superior intellect … Of course, you’re not married,” continued Samoylenko, glancing at the neighboring tables, “but see, that isn’t your fault, and what’s more … you must remain free from prejudice and stand on par with contemporary thought. Yes, personally, I believe in civil union … But, in my opinion, since your paths have already converged, then you must live together until death parts you.”

“Without love?”

“I’ll explain it to you right now,” said Samoylenko. “About eight years ago we had a little old envoy stationed here with us, a person of superior intellect. Here’s what he used to say: in family life, the most important thing—is patience. Do you hear me, Vanya? Not love, but patience. Love can’t endure for long. You’ve lived in love for about two years, but now, evidently, your family life has taken a step into that period when you, let’s say, so as to maintain equilibrium, must put forth all of your patience …”

“You believe your little old envoy, but his advice is meaningless to me. Your little old man could have been a hypocrite, he could have exercised patience and all the while looked at the unloved person, as he would at an object integral to his exercise, but I have not sunk so low yet. If I feel the urge to exercise patience, then I’ll buy myself a set of dumb-bells or a pummel-horse, but I’ll leave the person in peace.”

Samoylenko ordered white wine with ice. After they’d each drunk a glass, Laevsky suddenly asked:

“Tell me, please, what does a softening of the brain mean?”

“It’s, well, how can I explain it to you … It’s a disease where the brain begins to soften … as though it were dissolving.”

“Is it treatable?”

“Yes, if the disease doesn’t go unchecked. Cold showers, the fly … Well, something internal.”

“There … there, do you see what kind of a predicament I’m in? I can’t live with her. It requires more strength than I have. While I’m with you, I can go ahead and philosophize, and smile, but at home my spirits totally plummet. I’ve reached the point where it’s so macabre, that if someone were to tell me, let’s say, that I’m obliged to live with her for even one more month, then I would probably shoot a bullet through my forehead. And at the same time, I can’t leave her. She’s solitary, she doesn’t know how to work, I don’t have any money and neither does she … Where would she go? Who would she turn to? I can’t figure this out … So, there you have it, tell me: what do I do?”

“Hmmm, yes …” mumbled Samoylenko, not knowing how to respond. “Does she love you?”

“Yes, she loves me to the extent that she, at her age and with her temperament, needs a man. It would be as difficult for her to part with me, as it would her powder or hair-curlers. To her, I’m a necessary component in the arrangement of her boudoir.”

Samoylenko felt embarrassed.

“You, Vanya, aren’t in high spirits today,” he said. “You didn’t sleep, that must be it.”

“Yes, I slept badly … In general, brother, I feel rotten. Empty headed, heavy hearted, there’s a kind of weakness … I must run!”

“Where?”

“Over there, to the north. To the pines, to mushrooms, to people, to ideas … I would give up half my life, to be in some Moscow province right now or one in Tula, swimming in a river, getting a chill, you know? Then to wander around for at least three hours with the worst possible little student and to blab and blab … Oh, and how it smells of hay! Do you remember? And in the evenings, as you walk through the garden, the sound of a grand piano wafts from the house, you can hear the passing of a train …”

Laevsky began laughing from pleasure. Tears came to his eyes, and to conceal them he reached over to the neighboring table for matches without rising from his seat.

“I haven’t been to Russia in eighteen years,” said Samoylenko. “I’ve forgotten what it’s like there.