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Updated: May 26, 2025
In the twilight of the evening, Alyosha's face, with his white forehead and black, unblinking eyes, unexpectedly reminded Belyaev of Olga Ivanovna as she had been during the first pages of their romance. And he felt disposed to be friendly to the boy. "Come here, insect," he said; "let me have a closer look at you." The boy jumped off the sofa and skipped up to Belyaev.
Alyosha, taking hold of the tip of his left toe with his right hand and falling into the most unnatural attitude, turned over, jumped up, and peeped at Belyaev from behind the big fluffy lampshade. "What shall I say?" he said, shrugging his shoulders. "In reality mother's never well. You see, she is a woman, and women, Nikolay Ilyitch, have always something the matter with them."
All this he was doing with the utmost gravity, gasping and groaning painfully as though he regretted that God had given him such a restless body. "Ah, good-evening, my boy," said Belyaev. "It's you! I did not notice you. Is your mother well?"
I explain to him that you are kind, that you never scold mother; but he only shakes his head." "So he says I have ruined her?" "Yes; you mustn't be offended, Nikolay Ilyitch." Belyaev got up, stood still a moment, and walked up and down the drawing-room. "That's strange and . . . ridiculous!" he muttered, shrugging his shoulders and smiling sarcastically.
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