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Updated: June 1, 2025
The lieutenant remembered that Father Alexander used to call all the Catholic officers Poles, and wishing to make the priest laugh, he exclaimed: "Father Taroshevich, the Poles have fled to the woods." But Father Alexander, usually a gay, light-hearted man, did not laugh and looked even more serious, and made the sign of the cross over Klimov.
At two o'clock in the night the guests began coming out of Zybaev's house. The landowner from Tula was the last to make his appearance. He heaved a sigh that could be heard by the whole street and scraped the pavement with his heavy overboots. "Excuse me!" said the jeune premier, overtaking him. "One minute." Klimov stopped.
Klimov regarded himself as an injured creature, whose merits were unappreciated, a cultivated man from Petersburg, who ought not to be living in Moscow without occupation in the wilds, so to speak; and if he drank, as he himself expressed it emphatically, with a blow on his chest, it was sorrow drove him to it.
"I don't know," answered Klimov, lying down and shutting his mouth that he might not breathe the acrid tobacco smoke. "And when shall we reach Tver?" "I don't know. Excuse me, I . . . I can't answer. I am ill. I caught cold today." The Finn knocked his pipe against the window-frame and began talking of his brother, the naval officer.
He felt so sick he could not lie still, and began shouting: "The incense! Take away the incense!" There was no answer. He could only hear the subdued singing of the priest somewhere and some one running upstairs. When Klimov came to himself there was not a soul in his bedroom.
The lieutenant remembered that Father Alexandr used in a friendly way to call all the Catholic officers "Poles," and wanting to amuse him, he cried: "Father, Yaroshevitch the Pole has climbed up a pole!" But Father Alexandr, a light-hearted man who loved a joke, did not smile, but became graver than ever, and made the sign of the cross over Klimov.
Klimov regarded himself as an injured creature, whose merits were unappreciated, a cultivated man from Petersburg, who ought not to be living in Moscow without occupation in the wilds, so to speak; and if he drank, as he himself expressed it emphatically, with a blow on his chest, it was sorrow drove him to it.
In her house were not only laundresses, sempstresses, carpenters, tailors and tailoresses, there was even a harness-maker he was reckoned as a veterinary surgeon, too, and a doctor for the servants; there was a household doctor for the mistress; there was, lastly, a shoemaker, by name Kapiton Klimov, a sad drunkard.
The actor gave a smile, hesitated, and began, stammering: "I . . . I confess . . . I told a lie." "No, sir, you will please confess that publicly," said Klimov, and he turned crimson again. "I can't leave it like that. . . ." "But you see I am apologizing! I beg you . . . don't you understand?
The noise, the whistle, the Finn, the tobacco smoke all mixed with the ominous shifting of misty shapes, weighed on Klimov like an intolerable nightmare.
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