Vietnam or Thailand ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
Updated: May 18, 2025
Very different again was the young man Boris Nicolaievitch Grogoff. No relation of the family, he seemed to spend most of his time in the Markovitch flat. A handsome young man, strongly built, with a head of untidy curly yellow hair, blue eyes, high cheek bones, long hands with which he was for ever gesticulating.
"He's coming back," I said. "Oh, is he?" snarled Markovitch. "Well, he'd better look out." Then his voice, his face, even the shape of his body, changed once again. "I'm not a bad man, Ivan Andreievitch. No, I'm not.... You think so of course, and I don't mind if you do. But I love Vera, and if she loved me I could do great things. I could astonish them all.
You can go home, my dear, and sleep tranquilly. We have decided to pay the sum, but on condition that you repent and come with me tomorrow into the country and set to work." A minute later Ivan Markovitch and Sasha in their great-coats and caps were going down the stairs. The uncle was muttering something edifying.
They discussed, of course, the disturbances, and I can imagine Markovitch portentously announcing that "It was all over, he had the best of reasons-for knowing...." As he once explained to me, he was at his worst on Sunday, because he was then so inevitably reminded of his lost youth. "It's a gloomy day, Ivan Andreievitch, for all those who have not quite done what they expected.
"Hopeless!" he interrupted, and he gave a kind of grim chuckle of derision. "My dear Durward, what do you suppose I'm after?... rape and adultery and Markovitch after us with a pistol? I tell you " and here he spoke fiercely, as though he were challenging the whole ice-bound world around us "that I want nothing but her happiness, her safety, her comfort!
I clasp your hand, N. Markovitch. They went away together. I was greatly surprised to receive, a few days later, an invitation from Baron Wilderling; he asked me to go with him on one of the first evenings in March to a performance of Lermontov's "Masquerade" at the Alexandra Theatre.
I don't believe you could live at close quarters with any Russian, however nasty, and not get a kind of affection for him. They're so damned childish." "Oh yes, you could," I said. "Try Semyonov." "I'm coming to him in a minute," said Bohun. "Well, Markovitch was most awfully unhappy. That's one thing one saw about him at once unhappy of course because Vera didn't love him and he adored her.
Most Russians of his careless habits wore soft collars or students' shirts that fastened tight about the neck, but this high white collar was with Markovitch a sign and a symbol, the banner of his early ambitions; it was the first and last of him. He changed it every day, it was always high and sharp, gleaming and clean, and it must have hurt him very much.
I and Marie and Vera and Nina and Markovitch our love for you, your love for us, our courage, our self-sacrifice, our weakness, our defeat, our progress these are the things for which life exists; it exists as a training-ground for the immortal soul...." With a sweep of colour the stage broke into a mist of movement.
Semyonov laughed. That laugh seemed to rouse Markovitch to frenzy. He screamed out. "You have taken everything from me!... You will not leave me alone! You must be careful. You are in danger, I tell you." Semyonov sprang up from his chair, and the two men, advancing towards one another, came into Bohun's vision.
Word Of The Day
Others Looking