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The first moments I had dreaded most of all had gone off fairly well. She began little by little to talk about Andrei. 'I know that he does not love me now, she repeated: 'God be with him! I can't imagine how I am to live without him.... I don't sleep at nights, I keep weeping.... What am I to do! What am I to do! ... Her eyes filled with tears.
I went into the passage, and had not yet had time to utter a single word when the door of the drawing-room flew open and Varia ran to meet me. 'At last, she said, in a quavering voice; 'where's Andrei Nikolaevitch? 'Kolosov has not come, I muttered with an effort. 'Not come! she repeated.
I have no use for a name, and I have almost forgotten it myself." Razumov murmured gravely, "Yes, but still..." She went on much slower, with indifference "You may call me Tekla, then. My poor Andrei called me so. I was devoted to him. He lived in wretchedness and suffering, and died in misery. That is the lot of all us Russians, nameless Russians.
Now we are going to live. He answered her with a smile only. 'Ah, what a time we have had, Dmitri, what a cruel time! How can people outlive those they love? I knew beforehand what Andrei Petrovitch would say to me every day, I did really; my life seemed to ebb and flow with yours. Welcome back, my Dmitri! He did not know what to say to her. He was longing to throw himself at her feet.
Do you know, they had the impertinence to send one of their threatening letters to poor Andrei before they shot him. They sent him a sheet of paper with a cross drawn on it. Then I knew he was done for. They do not send that pour rire." He stopped short, and gave a jerk of the head.
After supper, Kolosov and I promptly took up our caps, which did not, however, prevent the lieutenant from saying, with a yawn: 'You've paid us a long visit, gentlemen; it's time to say good-bye. Varia accompanied Kolosov into the passage: 'When are you coming, Andrei Nikolaevitch? she whispered to him. 'In a few days, for certain. 'Bring him too, she added, with a very sly smile.
He looked round to make sure that none could overhear. "It was I who shot that Italian dog, Pietro Andrei," he mentioned in confidence, "on the road below Olmeta but that was a personal matter." "Ah!" said Lory, who had heard the story of Andrei's death on the market-place at Olmeta, and the stern determination of his widow to avenge it. "Yes I was starving, and Andrei had money on him.
I resolved either to part from Varia, or to receive from her herself the right to chase the hated name of Andrei from her lips for ever.
The musician, who had supposed that he was exercising his vocal organs unheard, stopped suddenly, and looked sheepishly around, as if conscious that he had been making himself ridiculous in some way, but did not know exactly how. "Why, Andrei," said Dodd, "I didn't know you could sing in English." "I can't, Barin," was the reply; "but I can sing a little in American."
The son of Andrei, Piotr, Fedor's grandfather, did not take after his father; he was a typical landowner of the steppes, rather a simpleton, loud-voiced, but slow to move, coarse but not ill-natured, hospitable and very fond of coursing with dogs.
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