Especially when he tried, as he was sometimes ill-advised enough to do,
to flirt with young girls, he was a dismal failure. He was intended, by
nature, to be mysterious and malevolent, and had he only had a
malevolent spirit there would have been no tragedy--but in the confused
welter that he called his soul, malevolence was the least of the
elements, and other things--love, sympathy, twisted self-pity, ambition,
courage, and cowardice--drowned it. He was on his best behaviour
to-night, and over the points of his high white collar his peaked, ugly,
anxious face peered, appealing to the Fates for generosity.
But the Fates despise those who appeal.
I very soon saw that he was on excellent terms with Semyonov, and this
could only be, I was sure, because Semyonov had been flattering him.
Very soon I learnt the truth. I was standing near the table, watching
the company, when I found Markovitch at my side.
"Very glad you've come, Ivan Andreievitch," he said. "I've been meaning
to come and see you, only I've been too busy."
"How's the ink getting along?" I asked him.
"Oh, the ink!" He brushed my words scornfully aside.
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