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Updated: June 24, 2025
Worn out by sleeplessness and anxiety they threw their burden of sorrow on one another and reproached and disputed with each other. "Petrusha has come with papers from your father," whispered the maid. Prince Andrew went out.
It seemed to me that he was angry about something. "He knows Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch too." "Do you know Nikolay Vsyevolodovitch?" inquired Stepan Trofimovitch. "I know him too." "It's... it's a very long time since I've seen Petrusha, and... I feel I have so little right to call myself a father... c'est le mot; I... how did you leave him?" "Oh, yes, I left him... he comes himself," replied Mr.
I don't know whether there is any truth in this observation of Stepan Trofimovitch's. I only know that Petrusha had somehow got wind of the sale of the woods and the rest of it, and that Stepan Trofimovitch was aware of the fact. I happened, too, to read some of Petrusha's letters to his father. He wrote extremely rarely, once a year, or even less often.
"If you please, your excellency, Petrusha has brought some papers," said one of the nursemaids to Prince Andrew who was sitting on a child's little chair while, frowning and with trembling hands, he poured drops from a medicine bottle into a wineglass half full of water. "What is it?" he said crossly, and, his hand shaking unintentionally, he poured too many drops into the glass.
A wonderfully fine inspiration occurred to his mind: when Petrusha returned, to lay on the table before him the maximum price of fifteen thousand roubles without a hint at the sums that had been sent him hitherto, and warmly and with tears to press ce cher fils to his heart, and so to make an end of all accounts between them.
There might in the past have been a hope that his soft would not come, after all an outsider, that is to say, might have hoped so. Stepan Trofimovitch as a father would; have indignantly rejected the insinuation that he could entertain such a hope. Anyway queer rumours had hitherto been reaching us about Petrusha.
I looked at him, his head buried in the pillow and half covered with the quilt; and I affectionately pitied him, pitied him for his ignorance of the bliss I was experiencing. Our serf Petrusha had met me with a candle, ready to undress me, but I sent him away. His sleepy face and tousled hair seemed to me so touching. Trying not to make a noise, I went to my room on tiptoe and sat down on my bed.
"It's.... a long while since I've seen Petrusha.... You met abroad?" Stepan Trofimovitch managed to mutter to the visitor. "Both here and abroad." "Alexey Nilitch has only just returned himself after living four years abroad," put in Liputin.
But what was a complete surprise to me then was the wonderful dignity of his bearing under his son's "accusation," which he had never thought of interrupting, and before Varvara Petrovna's "denunciation." How did he come by such spirit? I only found out one thing, that he had certainly been deeply wounded at his first meeting with Petrusha, by the way he had embraced him.
They are fascinated, not by realism, but by the emotional ideal side of socialism, by the religious note in it, so to say, by the poetry of it... second-hand, of course. And for me, for me, think what it means! I have so many enemies here and more still there, they'll put it down to the father's influence. Good God! Petrusha a revolutionist! What times we live in!"
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