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I am growing old, taciturn, crotchety, strict; I seldom laugh, and people say I am growing like Radish, and, like him, I bore the men with my aimless moralising. Maria Victorovna, my late wife, lives abroad, and her father is making a railway somewhere in the Eastern provinces and buying land there. Doctor Blagovo is also abroad. Dubechnia has passed to Mrs.
Then she lay down and ate some bread and said to me: "When you wanted to get away from the office and become a house-painter, Aniuta Blagovo and I knew from the very beginning that you were right, but we were afraid to say so. Tell me what power is it that keeps us from saying what we feel? There's Aniuta Blagovo. She loves you, adores you, and she knows that you are right.
I have grown older, have become silent, stern, and austere, I rarely laugh, and I am told that I have grown like Radish, and that like him I bore the workmen by my useless exhortations. Mariya Viktorovna, my former wife, is living now abroad, while her father is constructing a railway somewhere in the eastern provinces, and is buying estates there. Dr. Blagovo is also abroad.
My sister and Anyuta wanted to ask how I was getting on here, but both were silent, and simply gazed at me. I was silent too. They saw that I did not like the place, and tears came into my sister's eyes, while Anyuta Blagovo turned crimson. We went into the garden. The doctor walked ahead of us all and said enthusiastically: "What air! Holy Mother, what air!" In appearance he was still a student.
You must excuse me," she added, turning to her newspaper, "and I often see you and your sister. She has such a kind, wistful expression." Dolyhikov came in. He was wiping his neck with a towel. "Papa, this is Mr. Pologniev," said his daughter. "Yes, yes. Blagovo spoke to me." He turned quickly to me, but did not hold out his hand. "But what do you think I can give you?
When we reach the town Anyuta Blagovo, agitated and flushing crimson, says good-bye to me and walks on alone, austere and respectable. . . . And no one who met her could, looking at her, imagine that she had just been walking beside me and even caressing the child.
I asked. "Progress consists in deeds of love, in the fulfilment of the moral law. If you enslave no one, and are a burden upon no one, what further progress do you want?" "But look here!" said Blagovo, suddenly losing his temper and getting up. "I say! If a snail in its shell is engaged in self-perfection in obedience to the moral law would you call that progress?" "But why?" I was nettled.
Didn't you know that?" she asked, turning to me, and at once she mimicked the way sledge-drivers shout and sing. "And thank God for that," I thought as I listened to her. "Thank God." And again memories of the peasants, of the carts, of the engineer. . . . Dr. Blagovo arrived on his bicycle. My sister began coming often.
I liked her very much, and during rehearsals or the performance, I never took my eyes off her. I had taken the book and began to prompt when suddenly my sister appeared. Without taking off her coat and hat she came up to me and said: "Please come!" I went. Behind the stage in the doorway stood Aniuta Blagovo, also wearing a hat with a dark veil.
Blagovo to make me better acquainted with you, but apparently he forgot, or had not time. Anyway, we are acquainted all the same, and if you would come and see me quite simply I should be extremely indebted to you. I so long to have a talk. I am a simple person," she added, holding out her hand to me, "and I hope that you will feel no constraint with me.
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