medico repeated, raising his eyebrows and sadly shaking his head.
He was silent for a while, passed his hand over his forehead trying to recall the words, and began to sing in a loud voice and so well that the passers-by looked back.
- "Here, long ago, came free, free love to me ". . .
All three went into a restaurant and without taking off their coats they each had two thimblefuls of vodka at the bar. Before drinking the second, Vassiliev noticed a piece of cork in his vodka, lifted the glass to his eye, looked at it for a long while with a short-sighted frown. The medico misunderstood his expression and said—
"Well, what are you staring at? No philosophy, please. Vodka's made to be drunk, caviare to be eaten, women to sleep with, snow to walk on. Live like a man for one evening."
"Well, I've nothing to say," said Vassiliev laughingly, "I'm not refusing?"
The vodka warmed his breast. He looked at his friends admiringly, admired and envied them. How balanced everything is in these healthy, strong, cheerful people. Everything in their minds and souls is smooth and rounded off. They sing, have a passion for the theatre, paint, talk continually, and drink, and they never have a headache the next day. They are romantic and dissolute, sentimental and insolent; they
