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Updated: June 18, 2025
Sasha Uskov, the young man of twenty-five who was the cause of all the commotion, had arrived some time before, and by the advice of kind-hearted Ivan Markovitch, his uncle, who was taking his part, he sat meekly in the hall by the door leading to the study, and prepared himself to make an open, candid explanation. The other side of the door, in the study, a family council was being held.
"Come in," I said. "You must meet Madame Markovitch with whom Bohun is staying and then wait a bit. He won't be long, I expect." The idea of this seemed to fill Jerry with alarm. He turned back toward the door. "Oh! I don't think... she won't want... better another time..." his mouth was filled with indistinct rumblings. "Nonsense." I caught his arm. "She is delightful.
I wouldn't like to have a row with him." "Has he been to the Markovitches much lately?" "Yes almost every evening." "What does he do there?" "Oh, just sits and talks. Markovitch can't bear him. You can see that easily enough. He teases him." "How do you mean?" I asked. "Oh, he laughs at him all the time, at his inventions and that kind of thing. Markovitch gets awfully wild.
For a moment I was held by the crowd around me, and when at last I got free Semyonov had disappeared, and I could just see Markovitch turning the corner of the palace. I ran across the grass, trying to call out, but I could not hear my own voice. I turned the corner, and instantly I was in a strange place of peace.
His patron grew slowly imbecile, but through the fogs that increasingly besieged him saw only this one thing clearly, that the letters must be arranged. He kept Markovitch relentlessly at his table, allowing him no pleasures, feeding him miserably and watching him personally undress every evening lest he should have secreted certain letters somewhere on his body.
Either make war or demobilize the country could not stand the strain. I was warned not to trust Stanko Markovitch, the Governor of Podgoritza, a sinister figure enough, who had been raised suddenly to this height from being master in a primary school, for "services rendered." "The King's poisoner," said folk. "Beware!"
I only want to be a friend of hers, as you put it. Anything else is hopeless, of course. I'm not the kind of fellow she'd ever look at, even if Markovitch wasn't there. But if I can do anything... I'd be awfully glad. What kind of trouble do you mean?" he asked. "Probably nothing," I said; "only she wants a friend. And Markovitch wants one too."
He could only see the little window as the dimmest and darkest square of shadow behind Markovitch's candle, but he was sure that this was so. He could even see Semyonov standing there, in his shirt, with his thick legs, his head a little raised, listening... For what seemed an endless time Markovitch did not move. He also seemed to be listening.
For the root and soul of him was that he was greatly ambitious. He had been born, I learnt, in some small town in the Moscow province, and his father had been a schoolmaster in the place a kind of Perodonov, I should imagine, from the things that Markovitch told me about him.
The "Zakuska" were on a side-table near the door herrings and ham and smoked fish and radishes and mushrooms and tongue and caviare and, most unusual of all in those days, a decanter of vodka. No one had begun yet; every one stood about, a little uneasy and awkward, with continuous glances flung at the "Zakuska" table. Of the company Markovitch first caught my eye.
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