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Well, I never should have thought it!... Don't you know me?" exclaimed a middle-aged man who looked like an old-fashioned house-serf, wearing no beard and dressed in an overcoat with a wide turn-down collar. Stepan Trofimovitch was alarmed at hearing his own name. "Excuse me," he muttered, "I don't quite remember you." "You don't remember me. I am Anisim, Anisim Ivanov.
But the Russians will outnumber the English so greatly that the latter will hardly venture the march upon Kandahar. Reinforced by the Afghan forces, General Ivanov, with 100,000 men, can push on without hindrance to the Bolan Pass." "If he should succeed," said the Prince, "the way would then be open for him to the valley of the Indus.
She drank a great deal of brandy in slow sips, and as she pressed her beautiful lips to the glass she vilified everybody and everything Ivanov, the Revolution, Moscow, the Crimea, Marin-Brod, Mintz, and herself. Then she became silent, her eyes grew dull, she began to speak quietly and sadly, with a foolish helpless smile.
I have known a man named Ivanov, who was a German. Werner is a remarkable man, and that for many reasons. Like almost all medical men he is a sceptic and a materialist, but, at the same time, he is a genuine poet a poet always in deeds and often in words, although he has never written two verses in his life.
On 7 September, as Mackensen's forces were moving on Rovno and the Sereth at Tarnopol and Trembowla, Ivanov counter-attacked from Rovno and Brussilov and Lechitzky on the Sereth. By the 9th the two latter had captured 17,000 prisoners and a considerable number of guns; and Ivanov followed up this success by retaking Lutsk and Dubno by the 23rd.
I was assisted by a house-painter, or, as he called himself, a decorating contractor, named Andrey Ivanov, a man of about fifty, tall and very thin and pale, with a narrow chest, hollow temples, and dark rings under his eyes, he was rather awful to look at.
When Ivanov ceased speaking she rose noiselessly and went towards the door. She stood on the threshold a brief moment then, went out. The candle still burnt fitfully in the drawing-room. The house was wrapt in silence. Ivan Koloturov, President of the Bielokonsky Committee of the Poor, had ploughed his tiny holding for twenty years.
"Spare the boy at least!" another voice suddenly pierced the air. "Why kill a child, damn you! What has the child done?" "Ivanov, do what I told you to do," thundered the officer, drowning the other voice. His face turned as scarlet as a piece of red flannel. There followed a scene savage and repulsive in its gruesomeness.
"I am going to the wood." "I have come back here after not having seen you for months, and we have not yet spoken a word...." Ivanov did not reply, but went out. His footsteps echoed through the great house, finally dying away in the distance. The front-door slammed, shaking the whole mansion, which was old and falling to pieces.
Ivanov lighted a cigarette, and as the match flared between his fingers, illuminating his black beard, his trembling hands were distinctly visible. His pointer Gek came out of the darkness and fawned round his legs. Through the darkness of the windless night rang the church bell tolling for the last Gospel Service; it seemed to peal just outside the manor.
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