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Updated: May 1, 2025
Lavretsky wrote to his wife that he needed no answer... but he waited, he thirsted for a reply, for an explanation of this incredible, inconceivable thing. Varvara Pavlovna wrote him the same day a long letter in French. It put the finishing touch; his last doubts vanished, and he began to feel ashamed that he had still had any doubt left.
When she returned from the church where she had seen Lavretsky she set everything in her room in order more carefully than usual, dusted it everywhere, looked through and tied up with ribbon all her copybooks, and the letters of her girl-friends, shut up all the drawers, watered the flowers and caressed every blossom with her hand.
"Something brought me.... I I love you," he uttered in involuntary terror. Lisa slowly looked at him. It seemed as though she only at that instant knew where she was and what was happening. She tried to get up, she could no, and she covered her face with her hands. "Lisa," murmured Lavretsky. "Lisa," he repeated, and fell at her feet.
One evening, when Lavretsky was at the theatre he never missed a single representation, for Mochalof was then at the summit of his glory he caught sight of a young girl in a box on the first tier. Never before had his heart beaten so fast, though at that time no woman ever passed before his stern eyes without sending its pulses flying.
"But no no;" and she raised her handkerchief to her lips. "At least, then, give me that handkerchief " The door creaked. The handkerchief glided down to Liza's knees. Lavretsky seized it before it had time to fall on the floor, and quickly hid it away in his pocket; then, as he turned round, he encountered the glance of Marfa Timofeevna's eyes.
She is tired out You will see her, won't you? She, at all events, is innocent before you; and so unfortunate so unfortunate!" exclaimed Madame Lavretsky, and melted into tears. Lavretsky regained his consciousness at last. He stood away from the wall, and turned towards the door. "You are going away?" exclaimed his wife, in accents of despair.
Yet Turgenev is not typical of that Russian school of novelists of which Tolstoy and Gorki are distinguished examples; rather he belongs to the school of Thackeray, George Eliot, and Dickens. I. A Student's Marriage Fedor Ivanitch Lavretsky came of an ancient noble family. His father, a strangely whimsical man, determined that his son should grow up a Spartan.
Lavretsky listened to him attentively and with curiosity. "What do you say to this, Christopher Fedorovitch?" he said at last. "Every thing seems in order here now, and the garden is in full bloom. Why shouldn't I invite her to come here for the day, with her mother and my old aunt eh? Will that be agreeable to you?" Lemm bowed his head over his plate.
Lavretsky took a carriage and drove outside the barriers. All the rest of the day, and the whole of the night he wandered about, constantly stopping and wringing his hands above his head. Sometimes he was frantic with rage, at others every thing seemed to move him to laughter, even to a kind of mirth.
To-day is Sunday." "And so you go to church?" Liza looked at him in silent wonder. "I beg your pardon," said Lavretsky. "I I did not mean to say that. I came to take leave of you. I shall start for my country-house in another hour." "That isn't far from here, is it?" asked Liza. "About five-and-twenty versts." At this moment Lenochka appeared at the door, accompanied by a maid-servant.
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