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"It's a pity I cannot describe nature," thought Vassilyev. "I might touch her by a description of nature in Tchernigov. No doubt she loves the place if she has been born there." "Are you dull here?" he asked. "Of course I am dull." "Why don't you go away from here if you are dull?" "Where should I go to? Go begging or what?" "Begging would be easier than living here." "How do you know that?
George in a black frame, under glass, with an inscription in an old-fashioned handwriting: 'Received by the Colonel of the Tchernigov regiment, Vassily Guskov, for the storming of Prague in the year 1794'; and secondly, a half-length portrait in oils of a handsome, black-eyed woman with a long, dark face, hair turned up high and powdered, with postiches on the temple and chin, in a flowered, low-cut bodice, with blue frills, the style of 1780.
"Convict-steamer Ludwig Gadd just sailed for Sakhalien with Sziszkinski safe on board. "Tchernigov." The message was dated that same day, and timed as having been despatched from Odessa at four-forty. "Thank you; that will do," remarked von Schalckenberg, as he thrust the paper into his pocket. "Now," he continued, "I want you to take a walk with me in the park.
He is in the medical line, and is a district doctor in the province of Tchernigov. . . . 'Very well . . . I said to him, 'here I have asthma and one thing and another. . . . You are a doctor; cure your father! He undressed me on the spot, tapped me, listened, and all sorts of tricks, . . . kneaded my stomach, and then he said, 'Dad, you ought to be treated with compressed air." Father Christopher laughed convulsively, till the tears came into his eyes, and got up.
"I must begin with something trivial," he thought, "and pass to what is serious...." "What a pretty dress you have," and with his finger he touched the gold fringe of her fichu. "Oh, is it?..." said the dark woman listlessly. "What province do you come from?" "I? From a distance.... From Tchernigov." "A fine province. It's nice there." "Any place seems nice when one is not in it."
But at the same time France made a still more alluring offer, in case they would choose John Casimir, a prince in the interests of France, as their sovereign. The choice fell upon John Casimir. The provinces of Smolensk, Kiof and Tchernigov were then in possession of the Poles, having been, in former wars, wrested from Russia.
"Thank God, he has gone!" thinks the singer. "Now I can sleep." And as she falls asleep she thinks of her mari d'elle, what sort of a man he is, and how this affliction has come upon her. At one time he used to live at Tchernigov, and had a situation there as a book-keeper.
Very well. . . . Go to my estate in the province of Tchernigov. If you like I will make you a present of the property. It's a small estate, but a good one. . . . On my honour, it's a good one!" Bugrov gave a broad grin. He suddenly felt himself in the seventh heaven. "I will give it you. . . . This very day I will write to my steward and send him an authorisation for completing the purchase.
"How do you know?" "He has gone away. . . ." Liza opened her eyes wide. . . . "He has gone away, gone to the Tchernigov province. I have given him my estate. . . ." Liza turned fearfully pale, and caught at Groholsky's shoulder to save herself from falling. "I saw him off at the steamer at three o'clock."
The siege was continued for a full year, with all the usual accompaniments of carnage and misery which attend a beleaguered fortress. At last the city, battered into ruins, surrendered, and the victorious Russians immediately swept over Lithuanian Poland, meeting no force to obstruct its march. Another army, equally resistless, swept the banks of the Dnieper, and recovered Tchernigov and Kiof.
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