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Updated: June 3, 2025
The chest was still warm, but the forehead and hands were unpleasantly cold, and the half-open eyes looked, not at Olga Ivanovna, but at the quilt. "Dymov!" she called aloud, "Dymov!"
"He is dying because he sacrificed himself. What a loss for science!" he said bitterly. "Compare him with all of us. He was a great man, an extraordinary man! What gifts! What hopes we all had of him!" Korostelev went on, wringing his hands: "Merciful God, he was a man of science; we shall never look on his like again. Osip Dymov, what have you done aie, aie, my God!"
The fire flared up brightly; Styopka was enveloped in black smoke, and the shadow cast by the cross danced along the road in the dusk beside the waggons. "Yes, they were killed," Dymov said reluctantly. "Two merchants, father and son, were travelling, selling holy images. They put up in the inn not far from here that is now kept by Ignat Fomin.
His face was fearfully thin and sunken, and was of a greyish-yellow colour such as is never seen in the living; only from the forehead, from the black eyebrows and from the familiar smile, could he be recognized as Dymov. Olga Ivanovna hurriedly felt his chest, his forehead, and his hands.
"Grass snakes ought not to be killed, that's true," Panteley muttered placidly, "they ought not. . . They are not vipers; though it looks like a snake, it is a gentle, innocent creature. . . . It's friendly to man, the grass snake is." Dymov and the man with the black beard were probably ashamed, for they laughed loudly, and not answering, slouched lazily back to their waggons.
The stranger did not hear the question; he made no answer, and did not even glance at Dymov. Most likely this smiling man did not taste the flavour of the porridge either, for he seemed to eat it mechanically, lifting the spoon to his lips sometimes very full and sometimes quite empty. He was not drunk, but he seemed to have something nonsensical in his head.
"I ask you who you are?" repeated Dymov. "I?" said the unknown, starting. "Konstantin Zvonik from Rovno. It's three miles from here." And anxious to show straight off that he was not quite an ordinary peasant, but something better, Konstantin hastened to add: "We keep bees and fatten pigs." "Do you live with your father or in a house of your own?" "No; now I am living in a house of my own.
She went to her bedroom and lay down on her bed; from jealousy, anger, a sense of humiliation and shame, she bit the pillow and began sobbing aloud. Dymov left Korostelev in the drawing-room, went into the bedroom, and with a desperate and embarrassed face said softly: "Don't cry so loud, little mother; there's no need. You must be quiet about it.
Panteley looked at the cross and then at Dymov and asked: "Nikola, isn't this the place where the mowers killed the merchants?" Dymov not very readily raised himself on his elbow, looked at the road and said: "Yes, it is. . . ." A silence followed. Kiruha broke up some dry stalks, crushed them up together and thrust them under the cauldron.
The steamer soon came up and carried her away. She arrived home two and a half days later. Breathless with excitement, she went, without taking off her hat or waterproof, into the drawing-room and thence into the dining-room. Dymov, with his waistcoat unbuttoned and no coat, was sitting at the table sharpening a knife on a fork; before him lay a grouse on a plate.
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