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Updated: June 5, 2025
And in every case the human soul seemed formless, like a cloud, and as murkily mutable as an imitation opal, a thing which altered according to the colour of what adjoined it. Only as regarded the soul of the intelligent Ossip was I absolutely at a loss, absolutely unable to reach a conclusion.
I leapt up from where I was, and rushed blindly in Ossip's direction. "Where are you coming to, fool?" was his shout as he brandished the spirit-level. "Stand still where you are!" Indeed, Ossip seemed no longer to be Ossip at all, but a person curiously younger, a person in whom all that had been familiar in Ossip had become effaced.
Meanwhile, it was the river rather than the town that seemed to be motionless the latter had begun, as it were, to quiver and reel, and, with the hill above it, to appear to be gliding slowly up stream, even as the grey, sandy bank some ten sazheni from us was beginning to grow tremulous, and to recede. "Run, all of you!" shouted Ossip, giving me a violent push as he did so.
Again, if ever I tried to make an entry as to some material which had been used, Ossip would approach me, and, for instance, say: "Is it jotted down, eh? Then let me look at it." And, eyeing the notebook with a frown, he would add vaguely: "What a nice hand you write!" "For example, that scoop there what does IT say?" "It is the word 'Good." "'Good'? But what a slip-knot of a thing!
In a gap of blue between the clouds there was shining the March sun, and everywhere the ice was sparkling as though in derision of ourselves. Shading his eyes, Ossip gazed at the dissolving river, and said: "Yes, it IS rising but that will not last for long." "No, but long enough to make us miss the festival," grumbled Sashok.
And then curious indeed was it to see how many people suddenly came into view on the river to see how they appeared to issue from below the very ice itself, and, hurrying to and fro like jackdaws startled by the shot of a gun, to dart hither and thither, and to seize up planks and boathooks, and to throw them down again, and once more to seize them up. "Put the tools together," Ossip shouted.
And though this same Ossip was an artelui, and a director of the artel, his senior co-members bore him no affection, but, rather, looked upon him as a wag or trifler, and treated him as of no importance.
"And as you move think of God, or you'll never find yourselves among the invited guests at His holy festival of Eastertide." Next Ossip sounded a police whistle, which act led the old soldier to exclaim: "Oh, that's the way, mate! Good! Yes, you know what to do.
You've had your say, and given us some fun, and there must be no more of it." "But I had only just begun what I want to say," the old soldier grumbled, spitting upon the palms of his hands. Next, Ossip turned to myself. "Inspector," he began... It is my opinion that in thus hindering the men from work through his tale-telling, Ossip had some definite end in view.
My companions shouted, and collected into a knot; whereupon, at once dominating and quelling the tense, painful hubbub of sounds, there rang forth the voice of Ossip. "Mother of God!" he shouted. "Scatter, lads! Get away from one another, and keep each to himself! Now! Courage!"
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