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Updated: May 17, 2025
This comparison was so displeasing to him that his thoughts became confused, and for a while he sat brooding over the subject, endeavouring to find a justification of some kind. "No, I am not like the others," he said to himself, feeling, in a sense, relieved, "because I think about these things. Fellows like Riasantzeff and Novikoff and Sanine would never dream of doing so.
"A woman's just a female," replied Ivanoff, "In every thousand men you might find one worthy to be called a man. But women, bah! They're all alike just little naked, plump, rosy apes without tails!" "Rather smart, that!" said Von Deitz, approvingly. "And true, too," thought Novikoff, bitterly.
Novikoff felt that Sanine knew all that was troubling him, and, though in a measure comforted, he Was yet childishly abashed. "Come along!" said Sanine gently, as taking hold of Novikoff's shoulders he pushed him towards the door. "Yes ... I ..." murmured the latter. A sudden impulse to embrace Sanine almost overcame him, but he dared not and could but glance at him with tearful eyes.
What is more," added Sanine, with a merry twinkle in his eyes, "you are worried not about your life but because Lida has not yet fallen in love with you. Now, isn't that so?" "What utter nonsense you're talking!" cried Novikoff, turning as red as his silk shirt. So confused was he, that tears rose to his calm, kindly eyes.
After this they went on by stages to Ischl, where they parted company, Burton going to Vienna, and Isabel to Marienbad for a cure. Her stay at Marienbad she notes as mainly interesting because she made the acquaintance of Madame Olga Novikoff. Her cure over, with no good result, she joined her husband at Trieste.
That would be a crime against nature that had endowed her with its fairest gift." "Oh!" exclaimed Sanine, with undisguised sarcasm, "till now the idea of such a crime had never entered my head." Novikoff laughed maliciously, but replied politely enough to Sarudine. "Why a crime? A good mother or a female doctor is worth a thousand times more than an actress."
He felt that in another moment the grief pent up within his bosom must break forth in a flood of tears. "I know what's wrong with you," said Sanine. "Spit on it all!" Novikoff glanced piteously at him. His lips trembled and with a deprecating gesture, he silently went out, feeling utterly overcome at his own helplessness.
But as time goes on he speaks more often of his suffering throat; of gout, increasing deafness, only half a voice: his last letter is written in July, 1890, to condole with his friend upon her husband's death. In October his nurse takes the pen; Madame Novikoff comes back hurriedly from Scotland to find him in his last illness.
"I cannot see anything funny in it at all. In the first case, it is the question of a cause, an idea, whereas in the other " "Well?" "Oh! I don't know how to express myself!" And Novikoff snapped his fingers. "There now!" said Sanine, interrupting. "That's how you always evade the point.
Novikoff glanced trustfully at Sanine, afraid to speak, lest the faint spark of hope within him should be extinguished. At last he stammered out: "You know, if I ..."; but he got no further. Words failed him, and tears choked his utterance. "Well, if you what?" asked Sanine loudly, and his eyes shone.
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