Part 11 (1/2)
”Tickets, as many as you like, at the entrance.”
”Very well, then; I'll be back in a minute,” said Woloda evasively as he left the room. I knew very well that he wanted to go, but that he had declined because he had no money, and had now gone to borrow five roubles of one of the servants--to be repaid when he got his next allowance.
”How do you do, DIPLOMAT?” said Dubkoff to me as he shook me by the hand. Woloda's friends had called me by that nickname since the day when Grandmamma had said at luncheon that Woloda must go into the army, but that she would like to see me in the diplomatic service, dressed in a black frock-coat, and with my hair arranged a la coq (the two essential requirements, in her opinion, of a DIPLOMAT).
”Where has Woloda gone to?” asked Nechludoff.
”I don't know,” I replied, blus.h.i.+ng to think that nevertheless they had probably guessed his errand.
”I suppose he has no money? Yes, I can see I am right, O diplomatist,”
he added, taking my smile as an answer in the affirmative. ”Well, I have none, either. Have you any, Dubkoff?”
”I'll see,” replied Dubkoff, feeling for his pocket, and rummaging gingerly about with his squat little fingers among his small change.
”Yes, here are five copecks-twenty, but that's all,” he concluded with a comic gesture of his hand.
At this point Woloda re-entered.
”Are we going?”
”No.”
”What an odd fellow you are!” said Nechludoff. ”Why don't you say that you have no money? Here, take my ticket.”
”But what are you going to do?”
”He can go into his cousin's box,” said Dubkoff.
”No, I'm not going at all,” replied Nechludoff.
”Why?”
”Because I hate sitting in a box.”
”And for what reason?”
”I don't know. Somehow I feel uncomfortable there.”
”Always the same! I can't understand a fellow feeling uncomfortable when he is sitting with people who are fond of him. It is unnatural, mon cher.”
”But what else is there to be done si je suis tant timide? You never blushed in your life, but I do at the least trifle,” and he blushed at that moment.
”Do you know what that nervousness of yours proceeds from?” said Dubkoff in a protecting sort of tone, ”D'un exces d'amour propre, mon cher.”
”What do you mean by 'exces d'amour propre'?” asked Nechludoff, highly offended. ”On the contrary, I am shy just because I have TOO LITTLE amour propre. I always feel as though I were being tiresome and disagreeable, and therefore--”
”Well, get ready, Woloda,” interrupted Dubkoff, tapping my brother on the shoulder and handing him his cloak. ”Ignaz, get your master ready.”
”Therefore,” continued Nechludoff, ”it often happens with me that--”