“Oh, he did not mean anything. … Nikita, have we any Caucasian wine left?” I asked, very much relieved by Guskov’s loquacity. Nikita grumbled again, but brought us the wine all the same, and again crossly watched Guskov emptying his cup. In Guskov’s manner the former nonchalance again became apparent. I wished him to go away, and thought he stopped only because he did not like to go immediately after receiving the money. I was silent.
“How could you, with means at your disposal and no necessity, de gaieté de cœur make up your mind to come and serve in the Caucasus? That is what I don’t understand,” he said.
I tried to justify myself for this step that seemed to him so strange.
“I can imagine how uncongenial to you also the society of these officers must be, men without an idea of education. It is impossible for you and them to understand one another. Why, you may live here for ten years, and except cards and wine, and talk about rewards and campaigns, you will see nothing and hear nothing.”
I did not like his being so certain that I shared his opinion, and I assured him with perfect sincerity that I was very fond of cards and wine, and of talks about campaigns, and that I did not wish for better comrades than those I had. But he would not believe me.
“Oh, you do not really mean it,” he continued; “and the absence of women—I mean femmes comme il faut —is not that a terrible privation? I don’t know what I wouldn’t give to transport myself into a drawing-room now, and take a peep, though but through a crack, at a charming woman.”
He was silent a moment and drank another cup of wine.
“Oh God, oh God! It is still possible we may some day meet again in Petersburg among men, live with human beings, with women.”