ters, and it will interest them to see you. So you are really in earnest?"
Semyon Vasilyevich bowed, and although he was a bit unsteady from the amount of beer he had drunk, still all remarked that his manners were good. When Anton Ivanovich went away they were still drinking, and afterwards went noisily, the whole company, on to the Nevsky, where they gave way to none, but made all give way to them. Semyon Vasilyevich walked in the middle, arm in arm with Troitzky and the sombre Polzikov, and explained to them:
"Nay, friend Kostya, you don't understand the matter. In negresses there is something peculiar, something, so to speak, exotic."
"And I don't want to understand! They are black—black—nothing else."
"Nay, friend Kostya, this is a matter requiring taste. Negresses are—"
Until that day Semyon Vasilyevich had never even thought of negresses, and could not more exactly define what there was so desirable about them, so he repeated:
"My friend, they are ardent."
"Now, then, Kostya, what are you quarrelling about?" angrily asked Troitzky, as he tripped up, and sploshed in a big swapped galoche. "You are a wonderful fellow for arguing; you never agree with any one. Of course, he knows why he loves negresses. Drive on, Senya![1] love away!
- ↑ Short of Semyon.—Tr.
