Ivanov came in from the hall in his cap and muddy boots, carrying his rifle. Without a single word he passed through the room and went into his study. Mintz watched him in severe silence, then followed him. Inside he leaned against the door-post with a wry smile:
"You are shunning me all this time. Why?"
"You imagine it," returned Ivanov.
He lighted a candle on his desk, took off his coat, changed his boots and clothes, hung up his rifle.
"That is ridiculous!" Mintz replied coldly. "I very seldom imagine things. I want to say how very comfortable you seem here, because this is the very essence of comfort…. Look at me! I have painted pictures, sold them, painted more in order to sell those also—though I ceased painting long ago—and I lived in garrets because I must have light, and by myself because my wife will not come to such a place…. True, she is no longer with me, she deserted me long ago! Now I have only mistresses…. And I envy you because … because it is very cold in garrets…. You understand me?"
Mintz took off his pince-nez and his eyes looked bewildered and malignant: "In the name of all who had been tortured, all who have exchanged the springtime beauty of the parks for the erotic atmosphere of boudoirs; all who in the soft luxury of their homes forgot, and have now lost their claim on Russia—I say you are supremely comfortable, and we envy you! One may work here, one may even … marry … You have never painted, have you?"
"No."
Mintz was silent, then suddenly said in a low tone: "Look here! We have some brandy. Shall we have a drink?"
"No, thank you. I want to sleep. Good night."
"I want to talk!"