"I very seldom imagine
things. I want to say how very comfortable you seem here, because
this is the very essence of comfort.... Look at me! I have painted
pictures, sold them, painted more in order to sell those also--though
I ceased painting long ago--and I lived in garrets because I must
have light, and by myself because my wife will not come to such a
place.... True, she is no longer with me, she deserted me long ago!
Now I have only mistresses.... And I envy you because ... because it
is very cold in garrets.... You understand me?"
Mintz took off his pince-nez and his eyes looked bewildered and
malignant: "In the name of all who had been tortured, all who have
exchanged the springtime beauty of the parks for the erotic
atmosphere of boudoirs; all who in the soft luxury of their homes
forgot, and have now lost their claim on Russia--I say you are
supremely comfortable, and we envy you! One may work here, one may
even ... marry ... You have never painted, have you?"
"No."
Mintz was silent, then suddenly said in a low tone: "Look here! We
have some brandy. Shall we have a drink?"
"No, thank you. I want to sleep. Good night."
"I want to talk!"
Ivanov extinguished the candle, through custom finding his bread and
milk in the dark, and hastily consumed it without sitting down. Mintz
stood a moment by the door; then went out, slamming it behind him.
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