BORIS. You fiend! You dog! You liar! Ha, ha, ha! At least you can’t escape! No need for me to strike you!
ALEXIS. Ha, ha!
BORIS. Well! Sneer at me if you like. You are feeling the agony too, Alexis Alexandrovitch. You can’t deny it.
ALEXIS. I am not dying, Boris Shamrayeff.
BORIS. But, I know! I saw! I saw you drink! You’re dying, excellency!
ALEXIS. Yes, we drank together, didn’t we? Well, well! And your eye wasn’t off me an instant, was it? And you didn’t lift your cup till I’d drained the last drop of mine, did you? Well, well, well!
BORIS. I saw you drink what I drank.
ALEXIS. Yes, I did drink it, Boris Ivanovitch, didn’t I? But what is sending you down to fry in Hell with the stupid ghosts of your bestial ancestors is only embarrassing me with the slightest of headaches. [He chuckles.]
BORIS. It—it is not possible!
ALEXIS. Eh? An oriental trick. A man in constant fear of poison may accustom himself, little by little, to a dose that would blast the life of an ordinary man. A fantastic precaution these days, only interesting to an antiquarian like myself. Well, well, you can hear me, can’t you? I tell you I could have taken the entire mess; half of it seems to have been enough for you.