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I find the flock and the congregation that are familiar to me, a gathering of the early Christians, as it were: people with awkward bodies and fine souls, people who are always falling down, so to speak you understand and for whom poetry is a gentle vengeance upon life; never any but sufferers, yearners, paupers, never one of those others, the blue-eyed ones, Lisaveta, who have no need of intellect!...
Marya Dmitrievna launched into a description of her cares and anxieties and maternal sentiments. Lavretsky listened in silence, turning his hat in his hands. His cold, weary glance embarrassed the gossiping lady. "And do you like Lisa?" she asked. "Lisaveta Mihalovna is an excellent girl," replied Lavretsky, and he got up, took his leave, and went off to Marfa Timofyevna.
You see, the man of letters fails to understand, after all, that life still likes to go on living, that it is not ashamed of living after it has been put into words and 'redeemed. Lo and behold, it keeps on sinning unflinchingly despite its redemption at the hand of literature; for all action is sin in the eyes of the mind ... "I am ready to make my point, Lisaveta. Listen to me.
"How can you say that, Vladimir Nikolaitch? This German is poor, lonely, and broken-down have you no pity for him? Can you wish to teaze him?" Panshin was a little taken aback. "You are right, Lisaveta Mihalovna," he declared. "It's my everlasting thoughtlessness that's to blame. No, don't contradict me; I know myself. So much harm has come to me from my want of thought.
"I showed you Christopher Fedoritch's cantata on the express condition that you said nothing about it to him?" "I beg your pardon, Lisaveta Mihalovna, the words slipped out unawares." "You have hurt his feelings and mine too. Now he will not trust even me." "How could I help it, Lisaveta Mihalovna? Ever since I was a little boy I could never see a German without wanting to teaze him."
That man is far from being an artist, my dear, whose ultimate and deepest passion is the exquisite, eccentric, and satanic, who knows no yearning for the innocent, simple, and vital, for a little friendship, devotion, familiarity, and human happiness the furtive and consuming yearning, Lisaveta, for the raptures of the commonplace. "A human friend!
"The usual one," he said with a shrug of the shoulders and a visible blush. "Yes, I shall touch upon my my point of departure, Lisaveta, after the lapse of thirteen years, and that may be rather comic." Lisaveta smiled. "That is what I wanted to hear, Tonio Kröger. And so, go with God. And don't fail to write to me, too, do you hear? I promise myself an eventful letter from your trip to Denmark."
Until then you will group yourself anywhere, for example on that box yonder, if you are not afraid for your patrician garments." "Oh, let me alone about my garments, Lisaveta Ivanovna! Would you want me to run around in a torn velvet jacket or a red vest? Inwardly an artist is only too much of an adventurer.
The feeling of separation and of non-membership, of being recognized and observed, is in his face, something at once regal and perplexed. In the features of a prince walking in ordinary clothes through a crowd one can see something similar. But here no ordinary garb does any good, Lisaveta.
About him it was quiet and dark. But from below the sweet, trivial waltz time of life came up to him muffled and swaying. Tonio Kröger sat in the North and wrote to Lisaveta Ivanovna, his friend, as he had promised. Dear Lisaveta, down yonder in Arcadia, whither I shall soon return, he wrote.
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