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Updated: May 29, 2025
But . . . what are you going there for?" asked Mlle. Ilovaisky, looking at Liharev in surprise. "As superintendent. To superintend the coal mines." "I don't understand!" she shrugged her shoulders. "You are going to the mines. But you know, it's the bare steppe, a desert, so dreary that you couldn't exist a day there!
Mlle. Ilovaisky got up slowly, took a step towards Liharev, and fixed her eyes upon his face. From the tears that glittered on his eyelashes, from his quivering, passionate voice, from the flush on his cheeks, it was clear to her that women were not a chance, not a simple subject of conversation. They were the object of his new enthusiasm, or, as he said himself, his new faith!
"Then you have had a lively time," said Mlle. Ilovaisky; "you have something to remember." "Well, yes, it's all very lively when one sits over tea and chatters to a kind listener, but you should ask what that liveliness has cost me! What price have I paid for the variety of my life?
There was something apologetic, embarrassed about his whole figure, as though in the presence of a weak creature he felt ashamed of his height and strength. . . . When Mlle. Ilovaisky had lain down, he put out the candle and sat down on a stool by the stove. "So, Madam," he whispered, lighting a fat cigarette and puffing the smoke into the stove.
"I am going from our estate, fifteen miles from here, to our farm, to my father and brother. My name is Ilovaisky, and the farm is called Ilovaiskoe. It's nine miles away. What unpleasant weather!" "It couldn't be worse." The lame boy came in and stuck a new candle in the pomatum pot. "You might bring us the samovar, boy," said the man, addressing him. "Who drinks tea now?" laughed the boy.
She shrugged her shoulders, took a sip from her cup, and said: "There are festivals that have a special fragrance: at Easter, Trinity and Christmas there is a peculiar scent in the air. Even unbelievers are fond of those festivals. My brother, for instance, argues that there is no God, but he is the first to hurry to Matins at Easter." Liharev raised his eyes to Mlle. Ilovaisky and laughed.
This voice of human sorrow, in the midst of the howling of the storm, touched the girl's ear with such sweet human music that she could not bear the delight of it, and wept too. She was conscious afterwards of a big, black shadow coming softly up to her, picking up a shawl that had dropped on to the floor and carefully wrapping it round her feet. Mile. Ilovaisky was awakened by a strange uproar.
The crowd was shouting in disorder, and from its uproar Mile. Ilovaisky could make out only one couplet: "Hi, you Little Russian lad, Bring your sharp knife, We will kill the Jew, we will kill him, The son of tribulation. . ." Liharev was standing near the counter, looking feelingly at the singers and tapping his feet in time. Seeing Mile. Ilovaisky, he smiled all over his face and came up to her.
Mlle. Ilovaisky was suddenly ashamed of her heat and, turning away from Liharev, walked to the window. "No, no, you can't go there," she said, moving her fingers rapidly over the pane.
If a Russian does not believe in God, it means he believes in something else." Liharev took a cup of tea from Mlle. Ilovaisky, drank off half in one gulp, and went on: "I will tell you about myself. Nature has implanted in my breast an extraordinary faculty for belief.
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