“There is a revolutionist for you!” Pavel roared, bitterly. “I never did attach much importance to that fellow. The sooner he goes the better. God speed him.”
“You’re too hard on him, Pasha. He’s a good fellow. If we had Clara here she would straighten it all out. We miss her very much. As a matter of fact, it was she—indeed, I don’t see why I shouldn’t tell it to you—it was she with whom I was in love.”
“Was it?” Pavel asked, colouring.
He paused, in utter confusion, and resumed, without looking at him. “Well, you must excuse me, Aliosha, but I fear your frankness goes a bit too far. Such things are not meant to be published that way.”
“Why? Why? What a funny view you do take of it, Pasha! Suppose a fellow’s heart is full and he meets an intimate old friend of his, is it an indiscretion on his part if he opens his mind to him?”
“I certainly am a friend of yours, and a warm one, too, old boy,” Pavel replied with a smile. “But still, things of that sort are usually kept to oneself.”
Several other members came in. The gigantic samovar, the improvised sugar bowl, a huge loaf of rye bread, some butter and a lamp made their appearance on the table. Elkin dropped in later in the evening. He and Pavel had not been conversing five minutes when they quarrelled.
“What you are trying to do is to blend the unblendable—to mix socialism with Jewish chauvinism,” Boulatoff said in an ill-concealed rage.
“Am I?” the other retorted with one of the most virulent of his sneers. “Can socialism be mixed with the welfare of the Russian people only?—the welfare of the Russian people with a pailful or two of Jewish blood thrown in; in plainer language, socialism can only be mixed with anti-Semitism. Is that it?”