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Updated: June 20, 2025
It seemed to him that he had wronged Nadyezhda Fyodorovna and her husband, and that it was through his fault that her husband had died.
Now hear something more, if you please: I can't rise to your level I am too depraved; you can't descend to my level, either, for you are too exalted. So there is only one thing left to do. . . ." "What?" Zinaida Fyodorovna asked quickly, holding her breath and turning suddenly as white as a sheet of paper. "To call logic to our aid. . . ." "Georgy, why are you torturing me?"
"And there's terrible grief in store for you in the future! A solitary old age, ill-health; and then you will have to answer at the dread judgment seat. . . It's awful, awful. Now fate itself holds out to you a helping hand, and you madly thrust it from you. Be married, make haste and be married!" "Yes, we must, we must," said Nadyezhda Fyodorovna; "but it's impossible!" "Why?" "It's impossible.
Five times a day I would go in to Zinaida Fyodorovna, intending to tell her the truth, But her eyes looked piteous as a fawn's, her shoulders seemed to droop, her lips were moving, and I went away again without saying a word. Pity and sympathy seemed to rob me of all manliness.
Nadyezhda Fyodorovna saw again the men in white who were walking on the sea-front and talking French; and again she felt a sudden thrill of joy, and had a vague memory of some big hall in which she had once danced, or of which, perhaps, she had once dreamed.
It was evident that he had not slept all night; he had probably been playing cards and drinking freely. Zinaida Fyodorovna put him to bed, and we all walked about on tiptoe all that day. The dinner went off quite satisfactorily, but when they went into the study and had coffee the explanation began.
Zinaida Fyodorovna impulsively embraced Orlov and kissed him on the cheek. "Only please don't cry," he said. "No, no. . . . I've had my cry, and now I am better." "As for the servant, she shall be gone to-morrow," he said, still moving uneasily in his chair. "No, she must stay, George! Do you hear? I am not afraid of her now. . . . One must rise above trifles and not imagine silly things.
And there is something cold in your jokes. . . . Why have you given up talking to me seriously?" "I always talk seriously." "Well, then, let us talk. For God's sake, George. . . . Shall we?" "Certainly, but about what?" "Let us talk of our life, of our future," said Zinaida Fyodorovna dreamily. "I keep making plans for our life, plans and plans and I enjoy doing it so!
"You are out of humour. To-morrow you will feel differently, and will realise that you can't discharge people simply because you suspect them." "It's not suspicion; it's certainty," said Zinaida Fyodorovna. "So long as I suspected that unhappy-faced, poor-looking valet of yours, I said nothing. It's too bad of you not to believe me, George."
If so, was it not stupid to argue whether it were honest or dishonest when a gifted and useful man an artist or musician, for instance to escape from prison, breaks a wall and deceives his jailers? Anything is honest when a man is in such a position. At two o'clock Laevsky and Nadyezhda Fyodorovna sat down to dinner.
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