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Updated: June 7, 2025
He sat down on the bench near the gate and took off his hat, feeling that his head was burning with jealousy and resentment. The clock in the town church only struck twice in the twenty-four hours at midday and midnight. Soon after it struck midnight he heard hurried footsteps. "To-morrow evening, then, again at Muridov's," Atchmianov heard, and he recognised Kirilin's voice.
"He's drunk," thought Nadyezhda Fyodorovna. "Never mind. . . . Never mind. . . . So be it." Atchmianov, too, soon took leave of the party and followed Nadyezhda Fyodorovna to ask her to go for a row. He went to her house and looked over the fence: the windows were wide open, there were no lights. "Nadyezhda Fyodorovna!" he called. A moment passed, he called again.
"Never mind, never mind. . . ." It struck Laevsky as strange, too, that Atchmianov led him to a back entrance, and motioned to him as though bidding him go quietly and hold his tongue. "This way, this way . . ." said Atchmianov, cautiously opening the door and going into the passage on tiptoe. "Quietly, quietly, I beg you . . . they may hear."
"It doesn't interest me to know what every fool says of me," Nadyezhda Fyodorovna said coldly, and the amusing thought of playing with handsome young Atchmianov suddenly lost its charm. "We must go down," she said; "they're calling us." The fish soup was ready by now.
Nadyezhda Fyodorovna, afraid that Kirilin would speak to her, did her best to keep all the time beside Marya Konstantinovna and the children. She felt weak with fear and misery, and felt she was going to be feverish; she was exhausted and her legs would hardly move, but she did not go home, because she felt sure that she would be followed by Kirilin or Atchmianov or both at once.
"So that's it!" said Kirilin; he thought in silence for a few minutes and said: "Well, I'll wait till you are in a better humour, and meanwhile I venture to assure you I am a gentleman, and I don't allow any one to doubt it. Adieu!" He touched his cap again and walked off, making his way between the bushes. After a short interval Atchmianov approached hesitatingly.
Lies, lies, lies. . . . He vividly remembered what he had seen that evening at Muridov's, and he was in an insufferable anguish of loathing and misery. Kirilin and Atchmianov were loathsome, but they were only continuing what he had begun; they were his accomplices and his disciples.
She looked at him as though he were an ikon, with terror and penitence, and thought: "Forgive, forgive." Opposite her was sitting Atchmianov, and he never took his black, love-sick eyes off her.
But I want us to have my wine, too; I'm taking part in the picnic and I imagine I have full right to contribute my share. I im-ma-gine so! Bring ten bottles of kvarel." "Why so many?" asked Nikodim Alexandritch, in wonder, knowing Kirilin had no money. "Twenty bottles! Thirty!" shouted Kirilin. "Never mind, let him," Atchmianov whispered to Nikodim Alexandritch; "I'll pay."
He wants to speak to you of something. . . . For him it's a question of life and death. . . ." In his excitement Atchmianov spoke in a strong Armenian accent. "Who is it?" asked Laevsky. "He asked me not to tell you his name." "Tell him I'm busy; to-morrow, if he likes. . . ." "How can you!" Atchmianov was aghast. "He wants to tell you something very important for you . . . very important!
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