In my opinion, there’s no outskirt more magnificent than the Caucasus.”

“There’s a painting by Vereshchagin where those destined for death languish at the bottom of the deepest well. Your magnificent Caucasus appear to be exactly that kind of a well to me. If only I were given the choice between the two, being a chimney sweep in Petersburg or being a duke in these parts, I would definitely take being a chimney sweep.”

Laevsky lost himself in thought. To look at his body slumped over, at his eyes fixed on one point, at his pale, perspiring face and furrowed brow, at his gnawed fingernails and at his shoe, which hung off his heel revealing a haplessly stitched stocking, imbued Samoylenko with pity and, possibly because Laevsky reminded him of a helpless child, he asked:

“Is your mother alive?”

“Yes, but we’ve had a falling-out. She could not forgive me for this relationship.”

Samoylenko loved his friend. In Laevsky he saw a good-natured fellow, a student, a straightforward man whom he could drink with, and laugh with and soul search with. What he understood of him, he disliked extremely. Laevsky drank too much and, at inappropriate times, played cards, held his work in contempt, lived beyond his means, often used profane expressions in conversation, walked the streets in shoes and publicly fought with Nadezhda Fyodorovna—and Samoylenko disliked that. But then again, Laevsky had once been enrolled in the philology department of a university, he now subscribed to two fat journals, often spoke so astutely that only a handful of people could understand him, lived with an intelligent woman—Samoylenko understood none of this, and it appealed to him, and he considered Laevsky better than himself and respected him.

“There’s one more detail,” Laevsky said, shaking his head. “But this is just between us. I’ve been keeping it from Nadezhda Fyodorovna so far, so don’t let it slip in front of her … A couple of days ago I received a letter that her husband had died from a softening of the brain.”

“Kingdom of heaven …” sighed Samoylenko. “Why are you hiding this from her?”

“To show her this letter would mean: Please come right this way to the church and let’s get married. First, we must determine what our relationship is. When she is convinced that we can no longer live together, then I’ll show her the letter. It’ll be safe then.”

“You know what, Vanya?” said Samoylenko, and his face suddenly took on a sad and pleading expression, as though he were preparing to ask for something very sweet and feared that he would be refused. “Get married, my good man!”

“What for?”

“Fulfill your obligation to this beautiful woman! Her husband has died, and that is providence itself telling you what you must do!”

“Just understand, my eccentric friend, that it’s not possible. To marry without love is as foolish and worthless a thing for a man to do, as for a non-believer to enter into the service of God.”

“But you’re obliged!”

“Why am I obliged?” Laevsky asked with irritation.

“Because by sweeping her away from her husband you took responsibility for her.”

“But I’m telling you in plain Russian: I don’t love her!”

“Well, so there’s no love. Honor her, indulge her …”

“Honor, indulge …” mocked Laevsky. “Sure, she’s a regular mother superior … You’re a bad psychologist and physiologist if you think that life with a woman can coast on nothing but honor and respect. First and foremost, a woman requires a bedroom.”

“Vanya, Vanya …” Samoylenko became embarrassed.

“You’re an old child, a theoretician, but I’m a young old man, a pragmatist, and we’ll never understand one another. We’d better end this conversation. Mustafa,” Laevsky called out to the man, “what do we owe?”

“No, no …” the doctor panicked, grabbing Laevsky by the arm. “I’ll pay for this. I ordered it. Put it on my tab!” he called out to Mustafa.

The friends rose and silently proceeded along the embankment. They stopped where the boulevard began and parted with a handshake.

“You’re really very spoiled, gentleman!” sighed Samoylenko. “Fate has sent you a young, attractive, educated woman—and you refuse it all. If God would send me even a hump-backed old woman, as long as she’s tender and kind, I would be, oh, so very happy! I’d live with her on my vineyard and …”

Suddenly remembering himself, Samoylenko said:

“And I’d let that old witch set up the samovar there, all by herself.” Having said goodbye to Laevsky, he proceeded along the boulevard. At those times when he—massive, majestic, with an austere expression on his face, in his lilywhite service jacket and his fabulously polished boots, his chest puffed out, regaled with the Order of Vladimir with a ribbon—walked along the boulevard he liked himself tremendously, and it seemed to him that the entire world was smiling upon him. He looked from one side to the other without turning his head and found the boulevard was abundantly landscaped with young cypresses, eucalyptus and that even the unattractive, anemic palms were indeed attractive and would provide broad shade with time, that the Circassians were an honest and hospitable people.