Do we not
all of us, here with Fischelowitz, exactly fulfil the object set before
us, I would like to ask? Do we not make cigarettes from morning till night
with horrible exactness and regularity? Very well. Do we not, at the same
time, lead an atrociously objectless existence?"
"The object of existence is to live," remarked Dumnoff, who was fond of
cabbage and strong spirits, and of little else in the world. The Cossack
laughed.
"Do you call this living?" he asked contemptuously. Then the good-humoured
tone returned to his voice, and he shrugged his bony shoulders as he
crossed one leg over the other and took another puff.
"Nineteen hundred and twenty-nine," said the Count.
"Do you call that a life for a Christian man?" asked Schmidt again,
looking at him and waving towards him the lighted cigarette he held. "Is
that a life for a gentleman, for a real Count, for a noble, for an
educated aristocrat, for a man born to be the heir of millions?"
"Thirty," said the Count. "No, it is not. But there is no reason why you
should remind us of the fact, that I know of. It is bad enough to be
obliged to do the thing, without being made to talk about it. Not that it
matters to me so much to-day as it did a year ago, as you may imagine.
Thirty-one. It will soon be over for me, at least. In fact I only finish
these two thousand out of kindness to Fischelowitz, because I know he has
a large order to deliver on the day after to-morrow. And, besides, a
gentleman must keep his word even--thirty-two--in the matter of making
cigarettes for other people.
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