seemed that he, too, could not yet master his emotion; he kept changing his pen, fidgeting in his chair, rearranging things, and setting to work again, but his hand trembled and refused to move.
“Arkasha, I’ve talked to them about you,” he cried suddenly, as though he had just remembered it.
“Yes,” cried Arkasha, “I was just wanting to ask you that. Well?”
“Well, I’ll tell you everything afterwards. Of course, it is my own fault, but it quite went out of my head that I didn’t mean to say anything till I had written four pages, but I thought of you and of them. I really can’t write, brother, I keep thinking about you. …”
Vasya smiled.
A silence followed.
“Phew! What a horrid pen,” cried Shumkov, flinging it on the table in vexation. He took another.
“Vasya! listen! one word …”
“Well, make haste, and for the last time.”
“Have you a great deal left to do?”
“Ah, brother!” Vasya frowned, as though there could be nothing more terrible and murderous in the whole world than such a question. “A lot, a fearful lot.”
“Do you know, I have an idea.”
“What?”
“Oh, never mind, never mind; go on writing.”
“Why, what? What!”
“It’s past six, Vasya.”
Here Nefedevitch smiled and winked slyly at Vasya, though with a certain timidity, not knowing how Vasya would take it.
“Well, what is it?” said Vasya, throwing down his pen, looking him straight in the face and actually turning pale with excitement.
“Do you know what?”
“For goodness sake, what is it?”
“I tell you what, you are excited, you won’t get much done… . Stop, stop, stop! I have it, I have it listen,” said Nefedevitch, jumping up from the bed in delight, preventing Vasya from speaking and doing his utmost to ward off all objections; “ first of all you must get calm, you must pull yourself together, mustn’t you?”
“Arkasha, Arkasha!” cried Vasya, jumping up from his chair, “I will work all night, I will, really.”
“Of course, of course, you won’t go to bed till morning.”
“I won’t go to bed, I won’t go to bed at all.”
“No, that won’t do, that won’t do: you must sleep, go to bed at five. I will call you at eight. Tomorrow is a holiday; you can sit and scribble away all day long… . Then the night and — but have you a great deal left to do?”
“Yes, look, look!”
Vasya, quivering with excitement and suspense, showed the manuscript: “Look!”
“I say, brother, that’s not much.”
“My dear fellow, there’s some more of it,” said Vasya, looking very timidly at Nefedevitch, as though the decision whether he was to go or not depended upon the latter.
“How much?”
“Two signatures.”
“Well, what’s that? Come, I tell you what. We shall have time to finish it, by Jove, we shall!”
“Arkasha!”
“Vasya, listen! Tonight, on New Year’s Eve, every one is at home with his family. You and I are the only ones without a home or relations… . Oh, Vasya!”
Nefedevitch clutched Vasya and hugged him in his leonine arms.
“Arkasha, it’s settled.”
“Vasya, boy, I only wanted to say this. You see, Vasya listen, bandy-legs, listen! …”
Arkady stopped, with his mouth open, because he could not speak for delight. Vasya held him by the shoulders, gazed into his face and moved his lips, as though he wanted to speak for him.
“Well,” he brought out at last. “Introduce me to them to-day.”
“Arkady, let us go to tea there. I tell you what, I tell you what. We won’t even stay to see in the New Year, we’ll come away earlier,” cried Vasya, with genuine inspiration.
“That is, we’ll go for two hours, neither more nor less … .”
“And then separation till I have finished. …”
“Vasya, boy!”
“Arkady!”
Three minutes later Arkady was dressed In his best. Vasya did nothing but brush himself, because he had been in such haste to work that he had not changed his trousers.
They hurried out into the street, each more pleased than the other. Their way lay from the Petersburg Side to Kolomna. Arkady Ivanovitch stepped out boldly and vigorously, so that from his walk alone one could see how glad he was at the good fortune of his friend, who was more and more radiant with happiness. Vasya trotted along with shorter steps, though his deportment was none the less dignified. Arkady Ivanovitch, in fact, had never seen him before to such advantage. At that moment he actually felt more respect for him, and Vasya’s physical defect, of which the reader is not yet aware (Vasya was slightly deformed), which always called forth a feeling of loving sympathy in Arkady Ivanovitch’s kind heart, contributed to the deep tenderness the latter felt for him at this moment, a tenderness of which Vasya was in every way worthy. Arkady Ivanovitch felt ready to weep with happiness, but he restrained himself.
“Where are you going, where are you going, Vasya? It is nearer this way,” he cried, seeing that Vasya was making in the direction of Voznesenky.
“Hold your tongue, Arkasha.”
“It really is nearer, Vasya.”
“Do you know what, Arkasha?” Vasya began mysteriously, in a voice quivering with joy, “I tell you what, I want to take Lizanka a little present.”
“What sort of present?”
“At the corner here, brother, is Madame Leroux’s, a wonderful shop.”
“Well.”
“A cap, my dear, a cap; I saw such a charming little cap to-day. I inquired, I was told it was the fag on Manon Lescaut — a delightful thing. Cherry-coloured ribbons, and if it is not dear … Arkasha, even if it is dear… .”
“I think you are superior to any of the poets. Vasya. Come along.”
They ran along, and two minutes later went into the shop. They were met by a black-eyed Frenchwoman with curls, who, from
