United States or Afghanistan ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
"She'd rather die than make any concession to her unhappy mother, or beg her forgiveness," thought Pyotr Mihalitch, as he went to his mother with the letter. His mother was lying on her bed, dressed. Seeing her son, she rose impulsively, and straightening her grey hair, which had fallen from under her cap, asked quickly: "What is it? What is it?"
"She is my holy of holies. Since she is living with me, I enter my house as though it were a temple. She is an extraordinary, rare, most noble woman!" "Well, he's off now!" thought Pyotr Mihalitch; he disliked the word "woman." "Why shouldn't you be married properly?" he asked. "How much does your wife want for a divorce?" "Seventy-five thousand." "It's rather a lot.
Evidently he did not yet know that Zina had gone to live with Vlassitch; perhaps he had been told of it already, but did not believe it. Pyotr Mihalitch felt in a difficult position. "You are very welcome," he muttered, blushing till the tears came into his eyes, and not knowing how to lie or what to say. "I am delighted," he went on, trying to smile, "but . . . Zina is away and mother is ill."
"Grigory went off somewhere and I was left quite alone in the house." She was not embarrassed, and looked at her brother as frankly and candidly as at home; looking at her, Pyotr Mihalitch, too, lost his embarrassment. "But you are not afraid of storms," he said, sitting down at the table.
After two meetings she was weary of him, had thrown him over, and did not that, she thought now, give him the right to treat her as he chose? "Here I'll say good-bye to you, darling," said Laevsky. "Ilya Mihalitch will see you home."
Pyotr Mihalitch looked steadily at the water and imagined his sister's despair, her martyr-like pallor, the tearless eyes with which she would conceal her humiliation from others. He imagined her with child, imagined the death of their mother, her funeral, Zina's horror. . . . The proud, superstitious old woman would be sure to die of grief.
Pyotr Mihalitch was tempted to say, "Don't meddle in what does not concern you," but he held his tongue. Vlassitch walked by his right stirrup and Zina by the left; both seemed to have forgotten that they had to go home. It was damp, and they had almost reached Koltovitch's copse.
He suddenly shook his head despairingly, his breast heaved with a painful effort, and he fell back again. 'We can't let him lie here and die, though, cried Ardalion Mihalitch; 'lads, give us the mat from the cart, and carry him to the hospital. Two men ran to the cart.
On the seventh it was Sunday afternoon a messenger on horseback brought a letter. The address was in a familiar feminine handwriting: "Her Excy. Anna Nikolaevna Ivashin." Pyotr Mihalitch fancied that there was something defiant, provocative, in the handwriting and in the abbreviation "Excy." And advanced ideas in women are obstinate, ruthless, cruel.
Zina brought in a plateful of strawberries. She was followed by a little maidservant, looking crushed and humble, who set a jug of milk on the table and made a very low bow: she had something about her that was in keeping with the old furniture, something petrified and dreary. The sound of the rain had ceased. Pyotr Mihalitch ate strawberries while Vlassitch and Zina looked at him in silence.
Word Of The Day