Semyon Vasilyevich laughed also, with a low staccato laugh, like a parched pea; he blushed with pleasure, but at the same time was rather afraid that some unpleasantness might arise.
“Are you really serious?” asked Anton Ivanovich, when he had done laughing.
“Perfectly serious, sir. In them, those black women, there is something so ardent, or—so to speak—exotic.”
“Exotic?”
And once more all spluttered with laughter. But, though they laughed, they considered Semyon Vasilyevich quite a clever and educated man, since he knew such a rare word as “exotic.” Then they began to argue with warmth that it was impossible for any one to love a negress: they were black and greasy, they had such impossible thick lips, and smelt too strong of musk.
“But I love them,” modestly persisted Semyon Vasilyevich.
“Every one to his choice,” said Anton Ivanovich with decision; “but I would rather fall in love with a nanny-goat than with one of those blacks.”
But all were pleased that among them in the person of one of their own comrades there was to be found such an original person, that he loved negresses, and to honour the occasion they ordered another half-dozen of beer, and began to look with a certain contempt on the neighbouring tables, at which there sat no original people. They began to talk louder and with more freedom, and Semyon Vasilyevich left off striking matches for his cigarette, but waited till the attendant offered him a light. When the beer was all drunk up, and they had ordered more, the stout Polzikov looked sternly at Semyon Vasilyevich, and said reproachfully:
“How is it, Mr. Kotel’nikov, that we have never got beyond the “you’ stage? Do not we serve in the same office? We must drink to Comradeship, since you are such an excellent fellow.”
“Certainly, I shall be delighted,” Semyon Vasilyevich consented. He beamed now with delight that at last they recognized and appreciated him, and then again feared somehow that they would thrash him; at all events he kept his arm across his breast, to be ready, in case of need, to protect his face and well-brushed hair. After Polzikov he drank to Comradeship with Troitzky and Novosyolov and the rest, and kissed them so heartily that his lips became swollen. Anton Ivanovich did not offer to drink to Comradeship, but politely remarked: