Short Fiction by Vsevolod Garshin (always you kirsty moseley TXT) 📕

the horrible old painting to which probably none paid the slightest attention⁠—one of the tens of thousands which are attributed to some second-class Flemish master; of chessmen of Chinese work, so fine and ethereal that it was impossible to play with them, and on the heads of each of which were carved three balls, and of scores of other unnecessary articles.

The friends went into the study. Here it was more comfortable. A large writing-table, equipped with various bronze and china knickknacks, and littered with papers, plans, and drawing implements, occupied the middle of the room. Huge coloured plans and geographical charts hung on the walls, and below them stood two low Turkish divans with silk cushions. Kudriasheff, taking Vassili Petrovich by the waist, led him straight to a divan, and sat him on the soft pillows.

“Well, I am very glad to meet an old comrade,” said he.

“And I also.⁠ ⁠… Do you know what⁠—to arrive here as if in a wilderness, and suddenly to meet⁠ ⁠… Do you know, Nicolai Constantinovich, meeting you has so stirred my mind, has raised so many recollections⁠ ⁠…”

“Of what?”

“How of what? Of our student days, of the time when we lived so well, if not in a material sense, at least morally speaking.⁠ ⁠… Do you remember⁠ ⁠…”

“Remember what? How you and I used to devour sausages made of dog? Enough, my friend; it bores me. Will you have a cigar? ‘Regalia Imperiala,’ or some such name⁠—I forget what. I only know that they cost a poltinik each.”

Vassili Petrovich took one of the proffered treasures, took a penknife out of his pocket, cut the end off, lit the cigar, and said:

“Nicolai Constantinovich, I feel absolutely in a dream. A few years⁠—and you have got to such a position!”

“What position? It’s worth nothing.”

“But why? How much do you get?”

“What? Salary?”

“Yes, pay.”

“As engineer and Provincial Secretary Kudriasheff (2nd) I receive a salary of one thousand six hundred roubles a year.”

Vassili Petrovich’s eyes dilated.

“But how⁠ ⁠… Where does all this come from?”

“Oh, my friend, what simplicity! Where? Out of water and earth, sea and dry land. But chiefly from here.”

And he tapped his forehead with his finger.

“Do you see those drawings hanging on the walls?”

“I see them,” replied Vassili Petrovich, “and⁠—”

“Do you know what they are?”

“No, I don’t,” and Vassili Petrovich got up from the divan and went up to the wall. The blue, red, brown and black shades conveyed nothing to him, any more than the mysterious figures above the fine lines, drawn in red ink.

“Plans, of course they are plans; but of what?”

“Really, I don’t know.”

“These plans represent, my very dear Vassili Petrovich, a future mole. Do you know what a mole is?”

“Well, of course. You must remember I am a teacher of the Russian language. A mole is⁠—well, a dam. What?”

“Precisely, a dam. A dam for the formation of an artificial harbour. On these drawings is the plan of the mole which we are now constructing. You saw the sea from above where you were standing?”

“Certainly. A wonderful picture! But I did not notice any kind of construction.”

“It is difficult to notice it,” said Kudriasheff, laughing. “Scarcely any of this mole, Vassili Petrovich, is in the sea. It is almost all here on dry land.”

“Where?”

“Where, here in this house, and at the houses of the other engineers⁠—Knobloch, Puitsikovsky, etc. This is, of course, between ourselves. I am talking to you as an old friend. Why are you staring at me in that way? It is a common occurrence.”

“But really, this is awful! Surely you are not telling the truth? Are you really not above such unclean methods for obtaining this comfort? Has the past only resulted in bringing you to this⁠ ⁠… this? And you talk quite calmly of this⁠ ⁠…”

“Stop, stop, Vassili Petrovich! No strong words, if you please. You talk of ‘dishonourable methods’? Tell me first what is meant by honourable and dishonourable. I myself do not know. Perhaps I have forgotten, but I didn’t try to remember, and it seems to me you yourself do not remember, only pretend you do. But let us drop the subject. First of all, it is not polite. Respect freedom of judgment. You talk of⁠—dishonour. Talk if you like, but don’t swear at me. I do not swear at you because your opinions differ from mine. The whole matter, my dear friend, lies in the view, the point of view, and as there are many points of view, let us drop this matter and go to the dining-room, where we will have some ‘vodka,’ and talk on pleasanter subjects.”

“But, Nicolai, Nicolai, it hurts me to look at you.”

“Well, let it hurt as much as you like. Let it hurt. It will pass away. You will grow accustomed to it. You will look at it and will say, ‘What a simpleton I am!’ Yes, you will say it, remember my words! Come along, let us go and have a drink and forget about erring engineers. That’s why a man has brains, in order to go astray.⁠ ⁠… Well, my dear tutor, how much are you going to get?”

“It is all the same to you.”

“Well, for instance?”

“Well, I earn three thousand roubles with private lessons.”

“There you are! For a paltry three thousand to drag out your whole life in giving lessons! And I sit here and look around. If I wish⁠—I drink. If I don’t wish, I don’t. If the fancy came into my head to spit at the ceiling all day long, I could afford to do it. And money⁠—so much money that it⁠—‘is dross for us.’ ”

When they went into the dining-room, they found everything ready for supper. The cold roast beef looked like a rosy mountain. There were pots of jam displaying a variety of English names and labels. A whole row of bottles raised their heads from the table. The friends drank a wineglass or so of vodka each, and consumed their supper. Kudriasheff ate slowly and with relish. He was absolutely absorbed in his occupation.

Vassili Petrovich ate and thought,