I chose a Turkish divan in the “Mosaic hall,” lay down on it and gave myself up to the power of my fantasy and to castles in the air. Drunken thoughts, one more grandiose, more limitless than the other, took possession of my young brain. A new world arose before me, full of stupefying delights and indescribable beauty.
It only remained for me to talk in rhyme and to see visions.
The Count came to me and sat down on a corner of the divan.… He wanted to say something to me. I had begun to read in his eyes the desire to communicate something special to me shortly after the five glasses of vodka described above. I knew of what he wanted to speak.
“What a lot I have drunk to-day!” he said to me. “This is more harmful to me than any sort of poison.… But to-day it is for the last time.… Upon my honour, the very last time.… I have strength of will.…”
“All right, all right.…”
“For the last … Serezha, my dear friend, for the last time.… Shouldn't we send a telegram to town for the last time?”
“Why not? Send it.…”
“Let's have one last spree in the proper way.… Well, get up and write it.”
The Count himself did not know how to write telegrams. They always came out too long and insufficient with him. I rose and wrote:
“S—— Restaurant London. Karpov, manager of the chorus. Leave everything and come instantly by the two o'clock train.—The Count.”