§9
As soon as he noticed Sonnenberg, my father began a little campaign at once. He acknowledged by a bow enquiries as to his health; then he thought a little, and asked (this just as an example of his methods), “Where do you buy your hair-oil?”
I should say that Sonnenberg, though the plainest of men, thought himself a regular Don Juan: he was careful about his clothes and wore a curling wig of a golden-yellow colour.
“I buy it of Buis, on the Kuznetsky Bridge,” he answered abruptly, rather nettled; and then he placed one foot on the other, like a man prepared to defend himself.
“What do you call that scent?”
“Night-violet,” was the answer.
“The man is cheating you. Violet is a delicate scent, but this stuff is strong and unpleasant, the sort of thing embalmers use for dead bodies. In the weak condition of my nerves, it makes me feel ill. Please tell them to bring me some eau-de-cologne.”
Sonnenberg made off himself to fetch the bottle.
“Oh, no! you’d better call someone. If you come nearer me yourself, I shall faint.” Sonnenberg, who counted on his hair-oil to captivate the maids, was deeply injured.
When he had sprinkled the room with eau-de-cologne, my father set about inventing errands: there was French snuff and English magnesia to be ordered, and a carriage advertised for sale to be looked at—not that my father ever bought anything. Then Sonnenberg bowed and disappeared till dinner-time, heartily glad to get away.