"I cannot see anything funny in it at all. In the first case, it is the
question of a cause, an idea, whereas in the other--"
"Well?"
"Oh! I don't know how to express myself!" And Novikoff snapped his
fingers.
"There now!" said Sanine, interrupting. "That's how you always evade
the point. I shall never believe that the longing for a constitution is
stronger in you than the longing to make the most of your own life."
"That is just a question. Possibly it is."
Sanine waved his hand, irritably.
"Oh! don't, please! If somebody were to cut off your finger, you would
feel it more than if it were some other Russian's finger. That is a
fact, eh?"
"Or a cynicism," said Novikoff, meaning to be sarcastic when he was
merely foolish.
"Possibly. But, all the same, it is the truth. And now though in Russia
and in many other States there is no constitution, nor the slightest
sign of one, it is your own unsatisfactory life that worries you, not
the absence of a constitution. And if you say it isn't, then you're
telling a lie. What is more," added Sanine, with a merry twinkle in his
eyes, "you are worried not about your life but because Lida has not yet
fallen in love with you. Now, isn't that so?"
"What utter nonsense you're talking!" cried Novikoff, turning as red as
his silk shirt. So confused was he, that tears rose to his calm, kindly
eyes.
"How is it nonsense, when besides Lida you can see nothing else in the
whole world? The wish to possess her is written in large letters on
your brow."
Novikoff winced perceptibly and began to walk rapidly up and down the
path. If anyone but Lida's brother had spoken to him in this way it
would have pained him deeply, but to hear such words from Sanine's
mouth amazed him; in fact at first he scarcely understood them.
"Look here," he muttered, "either you are posing, or else--"
"Or else--what?" asked Sanine, smiling.
Novikoff looked aside, shrugged his shoulders, and was silent. The
other inference led him to regard Sanine as an immoral, bad man. But he
could not tell him this, for, ever since their college days, he had
always felt sincere affection for him, and it seemed to Novikoff
impossible that he should have chosen a wicked man as his friend. The
effect on his mind was at once bewildering and unpleasant. The allusion
to Lida pained him, but, as the goddess whom he adored, he could not
feel angry with Sanine for speaking of her. It pleased him, and yet he
felt hurt, as if a burning hand had seized his heart and had gently
pressed it.