‘I came here three days ago.’
‘From where?’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘Why indeed? But stop, stop a minute, Grisha. You are, perhaps, not aware who has just arrived here! Gubaryov himself, in person! That’s who’s here! He came yesterday from Heidelberg. You know him of course?’
‘I have heard of him.’
‘Is that all? Upon my word! At once, this very minute we will haul you along to him. Not know a man like that! And by the way here’s Voroshilov.... Stop a minute, Grisha, perhaps you don’t know him either? I have the honour to present you to one another. Both learned men! He’s a phœnix indeed! Kiss each other!’
And uttering these words, Bambaev turned to a good-looking young man standing near him with a fresh and rosy, but prematurely demure face. Litvinov got up, and, it need hardly be said, did not kiss him, but exchanged a cursory bow with the phœnix, who, to judge from the severity of his demeanour, was not overpleased at this unexpected introduction.
‘I said a phœnix, and I will not go back from my word,’ continued Bambaev; ‘go to Petersburg, to the military school, and look at the golden board; whose name stands first there? The name of Voroshilov, Semyon Yakovlevitch! But, Gubaryov, Gubaryov, my dear fellow! It’s to him we must fly! I absolutely worship that man! And I’m not alone, every one’s at his feet! Ah, what a work he is writing, O—O—O!...’
‘What is his work about?’ inquired Litvinov.
‘About everything, my dear boy, after the style of Buckle, you know ... but more profound, more profound.... Everything will be solved and made clear in it.’