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Updated: May 19, 2025
Mikhalevich began to read his poem, which was rather a long one. It ended with the following lines: "With my whole heart have I given myself up to new feelings; In spirit I have become like unto a child, And I have burnt all that I used to worship, I worship all that I used to burn." Mikhalevich all but wept as he pronounced these last two verses.
"After that," exclaimed Lavretsky, "I have a right to say that you are a fanatic." "Alas!" sorrowfully replied Mikhalevich, "unfortunately, I have not yet in any way deserved so grand a name " "I have found out now what to call you!" cried the self-same Mikhalevich at three o'clock in the morning. They do not even think anything. But you are a thinking man, and yet you lie idly there.
They shouted and cried aloud to such an extent that every one in the house was disturbed, and poor Lemm, who had shut himself up in his room the moment Mikhalevich arrived, felt utterly perplexed, and even began to entertain some vague form of fear. "Does a blasé man ever look like me?" answered Lavretsky.
"Ah, brother, don't come the aristocrat," answered Mikhalevich good-humoredly; "but rather thank God that in your veins also there flows simple plebeian blood. But I see you are now in need of some pure, unearthly being, who might rouse you from your apathy." "Thanks, brother," said Lavretsky; "I have had quite enough of those unearthly beings." "Cynic," said Lavretsky, correcting him.
"You are an egotist, that's what it is!" thundered Mikhalevich an hour later. "You wanted self-enjoyment; you wanted a happy life; you wanted to live only for yourself " "What is self-enjoyment?" " And every thing has failed you; everything has given way under your feet." "But what is self-enjoyment, I ask you?" " And it ought to give way.
His small eyes had an expression of stupid conceit, modified by a kind of cringing suspicion; his mustache and whiskers were dyed, he had an immense meaningless forehead, and flabby cheeks: his whole appearance was that of a retired general. Lavretsky kept his eyes fixed on the girl who had made such an impression on him. Suddenly the door of the box opened, and Mikhalevich entered.
Mikhalevich had never married; but he had fallen in love countless times, and he always wrote poetry about all his loves: with especial fervor did he sing about a mysterious, raven-haired "lady."
"It seems that Mikhalevich was right after all," he thought. "You wanted to find happiness in life once more," he said to himself. "You forgot that for happiness to visit a man even once is an undeserved favor, a steeping in luxury. Your happiness was incomplete was false, you may say. Well, show what right you have to true and complete happiness!
"And perhaps he is right," he thought, as he went back into the house. "Perhaps I am a marmot." Much of what Mikhalevich had said had succeeded in winning its way into his heart, although at the time he had contradicted him and disagreed with him. Let a man only be perfectly honest no one can utterly gainsay him.
From him he learned that the name of the girl he admired so much was Varvara Pavlovna Korobine, that the elderly people who were with her in the box were her father and her mother, and that Mikhalevich had become acquainted with them the year before, during the period of his stay as tutor in Count N.'s family, near Moscow. The enthusiast spoke of Varvara Pavlovna in the most eulogistic terms.
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