But the sense of jealously unsatisfied and of utter impotence still
oppressed him, and he returned home in deep dejection. Flinging himself
on his bed, he buried his face in the pillows and lay thus almost the
whole day long, bitterly conscious that he could do nothing.
"Shall we play makao?" asked Malinowsky.
"All right!" said Ivanoff.
The orderly at once opened the card-table and gaily the green cloth
beamed upon them all. Malinowsky's suggestion had roused the company,
and he now began to shuffle the cards with his short, hairy fingers.
The bright coloured cards were now scattered circle-wise on the green
table, as the chink of silver roubles was heard after each deal, while
on all sides fingers like spiders closed greedily on the coin. Only
brief, hoarse ejaculations were audible, expressing either vexation or
pleasure. Sarudine had no luck. He obstinately made a point of staking
fifteen roubles, and lost every time. His handsome face wore a look of
extreme irritation. Last month he had gambled away seven hundred
roubles, and now there was all this to add to his previous loss. His
ill-humour was contagious, for soon between Von Deitz and Malinowsky
there was an interchange of high words.
"I have staked on the side, there!" exclaimed Von Deitz irritably.
It amazed him that this drunken boor, Malinowsky, should dare to
dispute with such a clever, accomplished person as himself.
"Oh! so you say!" replied Malinowsky, rudely. "Damnation, take it! when
I win, then you tell me you've staked on the side, and when I lose ..."
"I beg your pardon," said Von Deitz, dropping his Russian accent, as he
was wont to do when angry.
"Pardon be hanged! Take back your stake! No! No! Take it back, I say!"
"But let me tell you, sir, that ..."
"Good God, gentlemen! what the devil does all this mean?" shouted
Sarudine, as he flung down his cards.
At this juncture a new comer appeared in the doorway, Sarudine was
ashamed of his own vulgar outburst, and of his noisy, drunken guests,
with their cards and bottles, for the whole scene suggested a low
tavern.
The visitor was tall and thin, and wore a loosely-fitting white suit,
and an extremely high collar. He stood on the threshold amazed,
endeavouring to recognize Sarudine.
"Hallo! Pavel Lvovitsch! What brings you here?" cried Sarudine, as,
crimson with annoyance, he advanced to greet him.
The newcomer entered in hesitating fashion, and the eyes of all were
fixed on his dazzlingly white shoes picking their way through the beer-
bottles, corks and cigarette-ends. So white and neat and scented was
he, that, in all these clouds of smoke, and amid all these flushed,
drunken fellows, he might have been likened to a lily in the marsh, had
he not looked so frail and worn-out, and if his features had not been
so puny, nor his teeth so decayed under his scanty, red moustache.