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"Yes, that is true ... you are right," answered Lydia Constantinovna. "But then I do not love Sergius, I never have done." "Of course I am right," Mintz retorted severely from his dim corner. "People never love others. They love themselves through others." Ivanov came in from the hall in his cap and muddy boots, carrying his rifle.
No advantage was, however, taken of this weakness, partly because of Russia's general debility and partly because what efforts she could afford were required for the defence of the Dvina and for the sympathetic activity of Ivanov in Galicia, which was the nearest approach Russia could make to intervention in the Balkans.
The only success won during this campaign was that in the far south where Austrian troops were sweeping eastward toward the San. This army drove back the Russians under Ivanov, reoccupied Jaroslav and relieved Przemysl.
The dogs became silent. A man appeared on the step with a lantern. "Who is there?" he asked quietly. "It is I," said Ivanov. "You, Sergius Mitrich?... Aha! But Arina is still at church ... went off there ... busy with her nonsense." The watchman paused. "Shall I go in and turn off the light? The express will soon be passing. Will you come in? Arina will be back before long. The wife's at home."
In the lower storey the owner himself, Filip Ivanov Kashin, nicknamed Dyudya, lives with his family, and on the upper floor, where it is apt to be very hot in summer and very cold in winter, they put up government officials, merchants, or landowners, who chance to be travelling that way.
The reflection shone upon her bent face, illuminating her lips, her bluish cheek-bones and dark arched brows; only her eyes were invisible in the darkness, and their cavities seemed enormous. The night's density gave way before the light of her lantern and the silvery trunks of birch trees glimmered ahead. Ivanov crossed the road in front of her.
On entering the main avenue of the park, Ivanov noticed the glow of a cigarette suddenly disappearing down a side-walk; afterwards he encountered Aganka at a gate. "You!" he exclaimed. "On the run as usual? So you have made friends with a smoker this time?"
Below, not many steps away, the stream flowed almost noiselessly; only, as though immeasurably remote the confused gurgle of its waters broke the profound quiet. Far away rose a soft murmur. The air hummed and shook with the roar of distant rapids. Ivanov leaned against a birch tree, laid his rifle beside him, struck a match and began to smoke.
Then come the more serious plays, where one feels for a moment the influence of Ibsen. We find here again the same heroes, each of whom talks about his own particular case, and acts only in starts. These are specimens of "failures" belonging to the most tiresome provincial society. In "Ivanov," the author studies the mentality of a "failure."
Arina stopped with a sudden gasp, and he felt the touch of her warm breath. "How you scared me!" she exclaimed quickly, stretching out her hand. "How are you? I have been at the church service. How you scared me!" Ivanov was about to draw her hand towards him, but she withdrew it, saying sternly: "No, you musn't, I'm in a hurry to get home, I have no time. Let me go."
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