“That’s the way. You’ve begun something big and splendid, Lichonin. The prince told me about it during the night. Well, what of it, that’s what youth is for—to commit sacred follies. Give me the bottle, Alexandra, I’ll open it myself, or else you’ll rupture yourself and burst a vein. To a new life, Liubochka, pardon me ... Liubov ... Liubov ...”
“Nikonovna. But call me just as it comes ... Liuba.”
“Well, yes, Liuba. Prince, ALLAHVERDI!”
“YAKSHI-OL,” answered Nijeradze and clinked his glass of beer with him.
“And I’ll also say, that I rejoice over you, friend Lichonin,” continued Soloviev, setting down his glass and licking his moustache. “Rejoice, and bow before you. It’s precisely you, only, who are capable of such a genuinely Russian heroism, expressed simply, modestly, without superfluous words.”
“Drop it ... Well, where’s the heroism?” Lichonin made a wry face.
“That’s true, too,” confirmed Nijeradze. “You’re reproaching me all the time that I chatter a lot, but see what nonsense you’re spouting yourself.”
“That makes no difference!” retorted Soloviev. “It may be even grandiloquent, but still that makes no difference! As an elder of our garret commune, I declare Liuba an honourable member with full rights!” He got up, made a sweeping gesture with his hand, and uttered with pathos:
“And into our house, free and fearless,
Its charming mistress walk thou in!”
Lichonin recalled vividly, that to-day at dawn he had spoken the very same phrase, like an actor; and even blinked his eyes from shame.