Every
man would, I suppose, like to tell his story in the manner of some other
man. I can conceive the events of this part of my narration being
interpreted in the spirit of the wildest farce, of the genteelest
comedy, of the most humorous satire--"Other men, Other gifts." I am a
dull and pompous fellow, as Semyonov often tells me; and I hope that I
never allowed him to see how deeply I felt the truth of his words.
Meanwhile I will begin with a small adventure of Henry Bohun's.
Apparently, one evening soon after Nina's party, he found himself about
half-past ten in the evening, lonely and unhappy, walking down the
Nevski. Gay and happy crowds wandered by him, brushing him aside,
refusing to look at him, showing in fact no kind of interest in his
existence. He was suddenly frightened, the distances seemed terrific and
the Nevski was so hard and bright and shining--that it had no use at all
for any lonely young man. He decided suddenly that he would go and see
me. He found an Isvostchick, but when they reached the Ekaterinsgofsky
Canal the surly coachman refused to drive further, saying that his horse
had gone lame, and that this was as far as he had bargained to go.
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