Short Fiction - Vsevolod Garshin (my miracle luna book free read .TXT) 📗

thought and ate. He was greatly perplexed, and could not make up his mind what to do. Acting on his principles, he ought at once to leave his old friend’s house and never look at it again. “All this is really stolen,” he reflected, as he placed a piece of meat in his mouth, and sipped the wine poured out by his host; “and is it not disgraceful of me to be here eating and drinking it?” Many such thoughts passed through the brain of the poor teacher, but they remained thoughts, and behind them hid a certain secret voice which annexed each thought by “Well, and what then?” and Vassili Petrovich felt that he was not able to decide this question, and remained seated. “Well, I will watch,” flashed through his brain in self-justification, followed by a sense of confusion mingled with shame. “Why should I observe? Am I a writer or what?”

“Ah, what meat!” commenced Kudriasheff. “Take note of it; you will not get anything like it throughout the town.” And he related to Vassili Petrovich a long story of how he had dined at Knoblochs’, and had been astonished by the beef there, and how he had found out where it could be got, and had eventually succeeded in getting it. “You have come just in the nick of time,” he said, by way of conclusion of his story about the meat. “Have you ever eaten anything approaching it?”

“It is certainly excellent beef,” replied Vassili Petrovich.

“Magnificent, my dear chap! I like everything to be as it ought to be. But why aren’t you drinking? Wait a moment, I will pour you out some wine.”

An equally long story of the wine followed, in which there figured an English ship’s captain, a commercial house in London, and the same Knobloch and the Customs. As he talked about his wine, Kudriasheff drank it, and as he drank he became more excited. Bright spots appeared on his pallid cheeks, and his speech became more rapid and vehement.

“But why are you so silent?” asked he of Vassili Petrovich, who, as a matter of fact, had preserved a stubborn silence whilst listening to the panegyrics on meat, wine, cheese, and the other delicacies adorning the engineer’s table.

“My dear fellow, I don’t want to talk.”

“Not want to? Bosh! I see you are still thinking about my confession. I am sorry, very sorry, I told you anything about it. We should have supped together with the greatest satisfaction but for this infernal dam.⁠ ⁠… Better not to think about it, Vassili Petrovich⁠—put it aside⁠ ⁠… eh? Vassenka, have done with it! What is to be done, old chap? I have not realized your hopes. Life is not a school. Yes, and I don’t know whether you will stick to your path long.”

“I beg you not to make conjectures about me,” said Vassili Petrovich.

“Offended?⁠ ⁠… Of course, you won’t stick to it. What has your disinterestedness given you? Are you really contented now? Do you really never think every day as to whether your acts are in keeping with your ideals, and are you not convinced every day that they are not? Am I not right, eh? But drink, it is good wine.”

He poured himself out a glassful, held it up to the light, sipped it, smacked his lips, and drank it.

“Look here, my dear friend, do you think that I do not know what you are thinking of at the present moment? I know exactly. ‘Why,’ you are thinking, ‘am I sitting here with this man? Is he necessary to me? Can I really not get on without his wine and cigars?’ Listen⁠—listen, let me finish. I do not for one moment imagine that you are sitting here only for my wine and cigars. Not at all. Even if you were in great need of them, you would not sponge on me. Sponging is a very burdensome thing. You are sitting here and talking with me simply because you cannot make up your mind as to whether or not I am really a criminal. Do I not disturb you, and that’s all? Of course, it is very offensive to you, because you have certain convictions divided up under various headings in your head, and under them, I, your former comrade and friend, appear a scoundrel. At the same time you cannot feel any hostility towards me. Convictions are convictions, but I by myself am your comrade, and I may even say a good chap. You know yourself that I am incapable of offending anyone.⁠ ⁠…”

“Wait a moment, Kudriasheff. Where have you got all this from? You yourself say it is not yours.” Vassili Petrovich waved his hand. “The person from whom you have stolen is the offended party.”

“It is easy to talk about the person from whom I have stolen. I think, and think, as to whom I have offended, but I cannot understand whom. You do not understand how this business is arranged. I will tell you, and then perhaps you will agree with me, that it is not so easy to find the offended party.”

Kudriasheff rang, and the stolid figure of a manservant appeared.

“Ivan Pavlich, bring me the drawing out of the study. It is hanging between the windows. You will see, Vassili Petrovich, what a gigantic business it is. I really have even begun to find poetry in it.”

Ivan Pavlich carefully brought an enormous sheet gummed on calico. Kudriasheff took it, pushed away the plates, bottles, and glasses near him, and spread out his drawing on the tablecloth, stained in places with red wine.

“Look here,” he said. “This is a sectional drawing of our mole, and this is a longitudinal section. Do you see the part painted blue? That is the sea. The depth here is so great that it is impossible to build up from the bottom, so we are first of all preparing a bed for the mole.”

“A bed?” asked Vassili Petrovich. “What a strange name!”

“A stone bed of enormous blocks of stone, each