Page:World Fiction 1922–1923.djvu/117

Rh screen. ‘I don’t want you!’ she cried. ‘You are silent, but so are my wardrobe and arm-chair. I might as well get engaged to my wardrobe. There would be no difference.’ What a stupid girl she was! ... Of course, I left.”

I smiled, half asleep, and said. “Y-yes... A—funny-story... Goo’ night...”

“Good-night. Sleep well... As a rule, men, at least, have some logic. But women sometimes behave in a strange way. Once, in the past—I really must confess—I had a flirtation with a married woman. And, if you please, why did she select me? ... It’s rather laughable. The reason, would you believe it? was that I was very silent and would not talk about our meetings. She bore it just three days and then she complained. ‘My God?’ she said. ‘I would rather have a gossip, a wind-bag or a boaster than you, you funny old tomb-stone. I have kissed and embraced a good lot,’ she said, ‘but never before have I flirted with an inanimate corpse.’ ‘Go!’ she cried, and ‘never let my eyes rest upon you again!’ ... And what do you think? She went herself to her husband and told him all about it! ... There you are!”

“No? Really?” I replied, hardly opening my heavy eyelids. “Well, let’s sleep. It must be at least half-past three.”

“Is it? It's indeed time to fall asleep.”

He took off his other boot without haste, and said,

“Once even a perfect stranger got cross with me. It happened in a railway carriage. We were travelling in the same compartment, and I naturally sat there silent, as I always do...”

I shut my eyes and pretended to snore in order to put an end to this silly conversation.

“... First he asked me, ‘Are you travelling far?’ ‘Yes,’ said I. ‘What do you mean “Yes”?’ he said...”

“Krrrrr—Ffffffff..." I snored.

“Hmm... Is he asleep? ... He is asleep, is he? ... Oh, Youth! Youth! The student I lived with did the same. As soon as he lay down he commenced to snore. And then he used to awake in the middle of the night and talk to himself. . . Well, one won’t extract much conversation out of me. Ha! Ha!”

I stopped my artificial snoring, raised myself on one elbow and said sarcastically, “You say that you are very silent? I find it difficult to believe you just now.”

“Why?”

“Well, you are talking continuously.”

“I am only telling you of some instances. There was, for another instance, one case that occurred with the priest about my confession. I went to him and he asked, as usual, ‘Have you sinned?’ ‘Yes, I have.’ ‘What?’ ... ‘Quite a lot.’ ‘Well, what?’ ‘All sorts of sins.’ Then we were both silent. He was silent, and I was silent, too. Finally...”

“Look here! Listen!” I shouted from my bed, sitting up angrily, “Whatever you are going to tell me now about your silence will not be believed. The more you tell me the less I'll believe you.”

“Why?” asked my companion in an offended voice, unbuttoning his waistcoat. ‘I don’t think I’ve given you any reason for doubting my words. Even in my office I once had trouble on account of my silence. The manager came in one day and called me over to his desk. He was obviously in an excellent mood.