. Paul and Alexander looked at the retreating
shore and at the lights of the embassy, fast growing dim in the
distance. Paul wished himself alone in his quiet pavilion, with a
cigarette and one of Gogol's novels. His brother, who was ashamed of
his violent temper and disgusted with his brother's coldness, wished
that he might never come back. Indeed, he was inclined to say so, and to
spend the night at a hotel in Pera; but he was ashamed of that too, now
that his anger had subsided, and he made up his mind to be morally
uncomfortable for at least twenty-four hours. For it is the nature of
violent people to be ashamed of themselves, and then to work themselves
into new fits of anger in order to escape their shame, a process which
may be exactly compared to the drunkard's glass of brandy in the
morning, and which generally leads to very much the same result.

But Paul said nothing, and so long as he was silent it was impossible to
quarrel with him. Alexander, therefore, stretched out his legs and
puffed at his cigarette, wondering whether he should ever see the lady
in the yashmak again, trying to imagine what her face could be like, but
never doubting that she was beautiful. He had been in love with many
faces. It was the first time he had ever fallen in love with a veil. The
sweet air of the Bosphorus blew in his face, the distant lights twinkled
and flashed past as the steam launch ran swiftly on, and Alexander dozed
in his chair, dreaming that the scented breeze had blown aside the folds
of the yashmak, and that he was gazing on the most beautiful face in the
world. That is one of the characteristics of the true Russian. The Slav
is easily roused to frenzied excitement, and he as easily falls back to
an indolent and luxurious repose. There is something poetic in his
temperament, but the extremes are too violent for all poetry. To be
easily sad and easily gay may belong to the temper of the poet, but to
be bloodthirsty and luxurious by turns savors of the barbarian.

Alexander was aroused by the lights of Stamboul and by the noise of the
large ferry-boats just making up to the wooden piers of Galata bridge,
or rushing away into the darkness amidst tremendous splashing of
paddles and blowing of steam whistles. A few minutes later the launch
ran alongside of the Vinegar Sellers' Landing on the Stamboul shore, and
the kavass came aft to inform the brothers that the carriage was waiting
by the water-stairs.

II.