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Updated: May 16, 2025
The working class to which I belong has one privilege: the consciousness of being incorruptible the right to refuse to be indebted to wretched little shopkeepers, and to treat them with scorn. No, indeed, you don't buy me! I'm not a Yulitchka!" Laptev did not attempt to pay the driver, knowing that it would call forth a perfect torrent of words, such as he had often heard before. She paid herself.
The words that parents use in such cases kept ringing in his ears: "It is true you don't love him, but think what good you could do!" The doctor was going out to see patients. Laptev would have gone with him, but Yulia Sergeyevna said: "I beg you to stay."
"What has the well-known musician got to do with it?" she said slowly. "Why, nothing's easier than helping some one poor." Silence followed. Pyotr handed the woodcock, but they all refused it, and ate nothing but salad. Laptev did not remember what he had said, but it was clear to him that it was not his words that were hateful, but the fact of his meddling in the conversation at all.
It somehow happened at the beginning of June that Laptev went into the Bubnovsky restaurant with Potchatkin to talk business with him over lunch. Potchatkin had been with the Laptevs a long while, and had entered their service at eight years old.
Then, after resting a little, she took her brother's hand and went on in a weak, toneless voice: "How kind you are, Alyosha! . . . And how clever! . . . What a good man you've grown up into!" At midnight Laptev said good-night to her, and as he went away he took with him the parasol that Yulia Sergeyevna had forgotten.
She pictured all the men she knew government clerks, schoolmasters, officers, and some of them were married already, and their domestic life was conspicuous for its dreariness and triviality; others were uninteresting, colourless, unintelligent, immoral. Laptev was, anyway, a Moscow man, had taken his degree at the university, spoke French.
Do you suppose because the cat eats out of the same saucer as the mouse do you suppose that she is influenced by a sense of conscious intelligence? Not a bit of it! She's made to do it by force." "Fyodor and I are rich; our father's a capitalist, a millionaire. You will have to struggle with us," said Laptev, rubbing his forehead with his hand. "Struggle with me is an idea I cannot grasp.
They dropped curtsies, and then went up to Laptev, who had to make the sign of the cross and give them his hand to kiss also. This ceremony with the hand-kissing and curtsying was repeated every evening. When the children had gone out Panaurov laid aside the newspaper and said: "It's not very lively in our God-fearing town!
"But how naïve and provincial the moon is, how threadbare and paltry the clouds!" thought Laptev. He felt ashamed of the way he had talked just now about medicine, and the night-refuge. He felt with horror that next day he would not have will enough to resist trying to see her and talk to her again, and would again be convinced that he was nothing to her. And the day after it would be the same.
Then came the sound of footsteps and heavy breathing; it was the doctor coming up the stairs, dishevelled and unkempt as usual. "Ru-ru-ru," he was humming. "Ru-ru." To avoid meeting him, Laptev went into the dining-room, and then went downstairs to his own room.
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