At the beginning of the war there had been many
cabarets--"The Cow," "The Calf," "The Dog," "The Striped Cat"--and these
had been underground cellars, lighted by Chinese lanterns, and the halls
decorated with Futurist paintings by Yakkolyeff or some other still more
advanced spirit. It seemed strange to me as I dressed that evening. I do
not know how long it was since I had put on a dinner-jacket. With the
exception of that one other visit to Baron Wilderling this seemed to be
my one link with the old world, and it was curious to feel its
fascination, its air of comfort and order and cleanliness, its courtesy
and discipline. "I think I'll leave these rooms," I thought as I looked
about me, "and take a decent flat somewhere."
It is a strange fact, behind which there lies, I believe, some odd sort
of moral significance, that I cannot now recall the events of that
evening in any kind of clear detail. I remember that it was bitterly
cold, with a sky that was flooded with stars. The snow had a queer
metallic sheen upon it as though it were coloured ice, and I can see now
the Nevski like a slab of some fiercely painted metal rising out of the
very smack of our horses' hoofs as my sleigh sped along--as though,
silkworm-like, I spun it out of the entrails of the sledge.
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