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"That also was an incident," muttered Razumov, "of a very charming kind for me." "Leave off that!" cried Sophia Antonovna. "Nobody cares for Nikita's barking. There's no malice in him. Listen to what I have to say. You may be able to throw a light. There was in St. Petersburg a sort of town peasant a man who owned horses.
We were always telling each other, 'Oh! you mustn't mind his appearance. And then he was always ready to kill. There was no doubt of it. He killed yes! in both camps. The fiend...." Then Sophia Antonovna, after mastering the angry trembling of her lips, told me a very queer tale.
So you went there?... And Sophia Antonovna, what did she tell you, then?" "She said very little, really. She knew that I should hear everything from you. She had no time for more than a few words." Miss Haldin's voice dropped and she became silent for a moment. "The man, it appears, has taken his life," she said sadly.
They can only be displaced at the cost of corrupted consciences and broken lives a futile game for arrogant philosophers and sanguinary triflers. Those thoughts darted through Razumov's head while he stood facing the old revolutionary hand, the respected, trusted, and influential Sophia Antonovna, whose word had such a weight in the "active" section of every party.
The sanguinary futility of the crimes and the sacrifices seething in that amorphous mass envelops and crushes him. But I don't think that in his distraction he is ever monstrous. Nobody is exhibited as a monster here neither the simple-minded Tekla nor the wrong-headed Sophia Antonovna. Peter Ivanovitch and Madame de S. are fair game.
"And did Sophia Antonovna agree with you?" I asked sceptically. "She did not say anything except, 'It is good for you to believe in love. I should think she understood me. Then she asked me if I hoped to see Mr. Razumov presently.
The first, great white hairless face, double chin, prominent stomach, which he seemed to carry forward consciously within a strongly distended overcoat, only nodded and averted his eyes peevishly; his companion lean, flushed cheekbones, a military red moustache below a sharp, salient nose approached at once Sophia Antonovna, greeting her warmly. His voice was very strong but inarticulate.
"Well, Sophia Antonovna," his air of reluctant concession was genuine in so far that he was really loath to part with her without testing her sincerity by a question it was impossible to bring about in any way; "well, Sophia Antonovna, if that is so, then " "The creature has done justice to himself," the woman observed, as if thinking aloud. "What? Ah yes!
Haldin, and the very vital anarchist, surely a portrait sur le vif, Sophia Antonovna, are testimonies of the writer's skill and profound divination of the human heart. Its involutions and undulations, its very recoil on itself as the pair face their memories, he haunted, she suspicious, touch the springs of desperate lives. As an etching of a vicious soul, the Eliza of Chance is arresting.
"Our Sophia Antonovna wishes to be made known to you," he addressed me, in his guarded voice. "And so I leave you two to have a talk together." "I would never have intruded myself upon your notice," the grey-haired lady began at once, "if I had not been charged with a message for you." It was a message of a few friendly words from Natalia Haldin.
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