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Updated: June 10, 2025
And driving back past the nunnery again, Sofya Lvovna thought of Olga, and she felt aghast at the thought that for the girls and women of her class there was no solution but to go on driving about and telling lies, or going into a nunnery to mortify the flesh. . . . And next day she met her lover, and again Sofya Lvovna drove about the town alone in a hired sledge thinking about her aunt.
But that there was a portion of truth in it was evident, from the fact that the prince always avoided conversation about Nadyezhda Lvovna. I knew that soon after her father's death Nadyezhda Lvovna had married one Kandurin, a bachelor of law, not wealthy, but adroit, who had come on a visit to the neighbourhood.
"No, certainly not I should answer in a different way," Arkhipov replied quietly. "And you, Vera Lvovna, a wife ... do you hear? I speak in front of you?" Vera Lvovna nodded, laid her hand gently on Kseniya's forehead, and answered softly and tenderly: "I understand you perfectly." Again Kseniya wept. The dawn trod gently down the lanes of darkness.
The nun knew her at once; she raised her eyebrows in surprise, and her pale, freshly washed face, and even, it seemed, the white headcloth that she wore under her wimple, beamed with pleasure. "What a miracle from God!" she said, and she, too, threw up her thin, pale little hands. Sofya Lvovna hugged her and kissed her warmly, and was afraid as she did so that she might smell of spirits.
He was afraid that when they got home, instead of being able to sleep, he would have to be administering compresses and drops. "Wo!" cried Sofya Lvovna. "I want to drive myself!" She felt genuinely gay and triumphant.
Besides Big Volodya, Little Volodya, and Sofya Lvovna, there was a fourth person in the sledge Margarita Alexandrovna, or, as every one called her, Rita, a cousin of Madame Yagitch a very pale girl over thirty, with black eyebrows and a pince-nez, who was for ever smoking cigarettes, even in the bitterest frost, and who always had her knees and the front of her blouse covered with cigarette ash.
She crossed herself three times and went out with Sofya Lvovna to the entrance. "So you say you're happy, Sonitchka?" she asked when they came out at the gate. "Very." "Well, thank God for that." The two Volodyas, seeing the nun, got out of the sledge and greeted her respectfully.
"Death is an exit into nothing. I have always that in reserve when I am heart-broken. For the present I am content to live and thrive." When the dispute was over, Vera Lvovna said in a low voice, as calm as ever: "The only tragic thing in life is that there is nothing tragical, while death is just death, when anyone dies physically. A little less metaphysics!"
Not at home, you say? H'm! . . . Thank you. Very good. I shall be much obliged . . . Merci." At twelve o'clock the maid came in to announce that Vladimir Mihalovitch had arrived. Sofya Lvovna, staggering with fatigue and headache, hurriedly put on her marvellous new lilac dressing-gown trimmed with fur, and hastily did up her hair after a fashion.
And Sofia Lvovna becomes frightened at the thought that for the young girls and women of her station there is no other alternative than to go on riding in carriages, or to enter a convent and gain salvation. "The Attack" gives us an example of the terrible feeling of terror that suddenly enters the proud soul of a young man at his first contact with certain realities.
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