The Created Legend, Fyodor Sologub [ebook reader with android os .txt] 📗

altogether dark on either side of the path, and it was impossible to know whether a wall was there or trees. There was nothing for him to do but to walk straight on. Nevertheless he occasionally thrust his foot out to either side of him and felt there; he was convinced that thickly planted, prickly bushes grew there. He thought there was another hedge beyond that.

“Tricks!” he grumbled.

As he slowly moved forward he experienced a vague and growing fear. So as not to be caught off his guard, he put his left hand into the pocket of his dusty and greasy trousers and felt there the hard body of a revolver, which he then transferred to his right-hand pocket.

On the threshold of the house he was met by Trirodov. Trirodov’s face expressed nothing except an apparent effort to suppress his feelings. There was no warmth or welcome in his voice:

“I did not expect to see you.”

“I’ve come, all the same,” said Ostrov. “Whether you like it or not, you’ve got to receive your dear guest.”

There was contemptuous defiance in his voice. His eyes looked more insolent than ever. Trirodov frowned lightly and looked straight into Ostrov’s eyes, which were compelled to turn aside.

“Come in,” said Trirodov. “Why didn’t you write and tell me that you wished to see me?”

“How should I know that you were here?” growled Ostrov surlily.

“Nevertheless, you found out,” said Trirodov, with a vexed smile.

“Found out quite by accident on the float,” replied Ostrov. “Heard you mentioned in conversation. I don’t think you’ll care to know what they said.”

He gave an insinuating smile. Trirodov merely said: “Come in. Follow me.”

They ascended a narrow, very steep staircase with low, wide stairs; there were frequent turnings in various directions round all sorts of odd corners, interrupted by long landings between the climbs; each landing revealed a tightly shut door. The light was clear and unwavering. A cold gaiety and malice, a half-hidden, motionless irony, were in the gleam of the incandescent wires bent inside the glass pears.

Someone walked behind with a light, cautious step. There were the clicking sounds of lights being extinguished; the passages they had just passed through were plunged in darkness.

At last they reached the top of the stairway. They walked through a long corridor and found themselves in a large gloomy room. There was a sideboard against one of the walls and a table in the middle; cut-glass dishes rested along shelves around the room. It was to all appearances a dining-room.

“It’s quite the proper thing to do,” grumbled Ostrov. “A meal would do me no harm.”

The light was strangely distributed. Half of the room and half of the table were in the shadow. Two boys dressed in white waited at the table. Ostrov winked at them insolently.

But they looked on calmly and departed quite simply. Trirodov settled himself in the dark part of the room. Ostrov sat down at the table. Trirodov began:

“Well, what do you want of me?”

“Now that’s a businesslike question,” answered Ostrov, with a hoarse laugh, “very much a business question, not so much a gracious as a businesslike question. What do I want? In the first place, I am delighted to see you. There is a certain bond between us⁠—our childhood and all the rest of it.”

“I’m very glad,” said Trirodov dryly.

“I doubt it,” responded Ostrov impudently. “Then again, my dear chap, I’ve come for something else. In fact, you’ve guessed what I’ve come for. You’ve been a psychologist ever since I can remember.”

“What is it you want?” asked Trirodov.

“Can’t you guess?” said Ostrov, winking his eye.

“No,” replied Trirodov dryly.

“In that case there’s nothing left for me to do but to tell you straight: I need money.”

He laughed hoarsely, unnaturally; then, pouring out a glass of wine, mumbled as he gulped it down:

“Good wine.”

“Everyone needs money,” answered Trirodov coldly. “Where do you intend to get it?”

Ostrov turned in his chair. He chuckled nervously and said:

“I’ve come to you, as you see. You evidently have lots of money, and I have little. Comment is needless, as the newspapers would say.”

“So that’s it! And suppose I refuse?” asked Trirodov.

Ostrov whistled sharply and looked insolently at Trirodov.

“Well, old chap,” he said rudely, “I don’t count on your permitting yourself such a stupid mistake.”

“Why not?”

“Why not?” repeated Ostrov after him. “I think the facts must be as clear to you as to me, if not more so⁠—and there’s nothing to be gained by the world getting wind of them.”

“I owe you nothing,” said Trirodov quietly. “I don’t understand why I should give you money. You’d only spend it recklessly⁠—squander it most likely.”

“And do you spend it any more sensibly?” asked Ostrov with a malicious smile.

“If not more sensibly, at least with more reckoning,” retorted Trirodov. “In any case, I’m prepared to help you. Only I may as well tell you that I have little spare cash and that even if I had it I’d not give you much.”

Ostrov gave a short, abrupt laugh and said with decision:

“A little is of no use to me. I need a lot of money. But perhaps you’ll not think it much.”

“How much do you want?” asked Trirodov abruptly.

“Twenty thousand roubles,” replied Ostrov, making a determined effort to brazen it out.

“I’ll not give you so much,” said Trirodov, “and I couldn’t even if I wished to.”

Ostrov drew nearer to Trirodov and whispered:

“I’ll inform against you.”

“What then?” asked Trirodov, untouched by the threat.

“It will be bad for you. It’s a capital crime, as you know, my dear chap, and of a no mean order,” said Ostrov in a menacing tone.

“Yours, my good fellow,” said Trirodov in his usual calm voice.

“I’ll manage to wriggle out of it somehow, but will see that you get your due,” said Ostrov with a laugh.

“You’re making a sad mistake if you think that I have anything to fear,” observed Trirodov, with a shrug of his shoulders.

Ostrov seemed to grow more insolent every minute. He whistled and said banteringly:

“Tell me now, if you please! Didn’t you