Chapter 15 - Page 2

man regrets
that, as the proverb has it, he should have reached man's estate
but not man's understanding. . . . What do I do in my spare time?
I sleep like a fool, though I would far rather be occupied with
something else--say, with eating or writing, since the one is
useful to oneself, and the other is beneficial to one's fellows.
You should see how much money these fellows contrive to save! How
much, for instance, does not Rataziaev lay by? A few days'
writing, I am told, can earn him as much as three hundred
roubles! Indeed, if a man be a writer of short stories or
anything else that is interesting, he can sometimes pocket five
hundred roubles, or a thousand, at a time! Think of it, Barbara!
Rataziaev has by him a small manuscript of verses, and for it he
is asking--what do you think? Seven thousand roubles! Why, one
could buy a whole house for that sum! He has even refused five
thousand for a manuscript, and on that occasion I reasoned with
him, and advised him to accept the five thousand. But it was of
no use. "For," said he, "they will soon offer me seven thousand,"
and kept to his point, for he is a man of some determination.

Suppose, now, that I were to give you an extract from "Passion in
Italy" (as another work of his is called). Read this, dearest
Barbara, and judge for yourself:

"Vladimir started, for in his veins the lust of passion had
welled until it had reached boiling point.

"'Countess,' he cried, 'do you know how terrible is this
adoration of mine, how infinite this madness? No! My fancies have
not deceived me--I love you ecstatically, diabolically, as a
madman might! All the blood that is in your husband's body could
never quench the furious, surging rapture that is in my soul! No
puny obstacle could thwart the all-destroying, infernal flame
which is eating into my exhausted breast! 0h Zinaida, my
Zinaida!'

"'Vladimir!' she whispered, almost beside herself, as she sank
upon his bosom.

"'My Zinaida!' cried the enraptured Smileski once more.

"His breath was coming in sharp, broken pants. The lamp of love
was burning brightly on the altar of passion, and searing the
hearts of the two unfortunate sufferers.

"'Vladimir!' again she whispered in her intoxication, while her
bosom heaved, her cheeks glowed, and her eyes flashed fire.

"Thus was a new and dread union consummated.

"Half an hour later the aged Count entered his wife's boudoir.

"'How now, my love?' said he. 'Surely it is for some welcome
guest beyond the common that you have had the samovar [Tea-urn.]
thus prepared?' And he smote her lightly on the cheek."

What think you of THAT, Barbara? True, it is a little too
outspoken--there can be no doubt of